How to Make Your Doctor Question His Profession of Choice ...

One thing you need to know about me is that I was born with a big heart ... and an even bigger mouth. Unfortunately, this is a common casualty of us Watkins gals, however I seem to have been hit the hardest with this blessing/curse. I mean, it is only natural that we be this way... our parents are exactly the same.

For example, my mom was at Sam's Club one day and the door greeter was in a wheelchair and had two patriotically painted, wooden legs. Rather than smile and walk on, she felt compelled to squeal with glee as she exclaimed, "I love your legs!! Where did you get those?! I'm serious. Those are really awesome!" Upon hearing the story from my dad, us girls were mortified and promptly told my mother that wooden legs are much like gold teeth. You can admire them, just don't talk about them.

And don't get me started on my dad's incessant need to tell unsuspecting strangers all about his many surgeries. He loves to compare surgery stories with passersby and us girls are often found sinking under the table as we listen to the banter that is sure to follow. But my dad loves people and they certainly love him. As a previous college football player, he has more stitches than a quilt so I suppose he can brag if he'd like.

I am reminded about my big mouth often. Many happenings in the Brann household are followed by a simple request from my hubby: "Brooke, please don't blog about this or post it on Facebook." Of course I am shocked by such accusations, so I sweetly reply, "I would never." My assertions of innocence are often followed by Jimmy's raised eyebrows and a simple shake of his head. He knows me so well. Anyways.

I often run into my "big mouth awareness" at my doctor's appointments. I am starting to wonder if they dread my appointment times and I wouldn't be surprised if there is a picture of me in the break room that reads ,"Do Not Get Stuck Talking to This Patient." And for the record, I am convinced that it has to be almost impossible for our doctors to remember us each visit. They see hundreds of patients each week and their smart heads are already crammed full of information about human anatomy, viruses, prescriptions, etc. They can't possibly keep everything sorted out. I mean, I have trouble keeping track of the Lord of the Rings characters. So I am certain that I have to leave some sort of impression so they will know who I am when I call with my pressing questions.

Our 6 week appointment left Jimmy blushing and me beaming ... with pride. I think I actually made our new doctor a bit uncomfortable.  Our current OB is still fairly new to us so we are still in the honeymoon phase. I think he's great. He thinks I'm great. Life is good. I think it's important to really 'know' those who are responsible for helping bring your expectant child into the world so I have been asking lots of questions. Here's how the appointment went:

Me: Doctor S, do you have kids?

Dr.: I do...I have six.

Me: Six?! My goodness, you must love your life!

Dr.: I do love my life, you're being serious, right? ... Why do you ask? (insert rubber glove snap here.)

Me: Oh I don't know. I figure if I am going to have another kid it's important to have a doctor that either knows how to get themselves pregnant or knows how to get their women pregnant. Sounds like you have mastered that skill.

Insert Jimmy's covered face and shaking head here - I really should've stopped rambling at this point but I didn't. I kept talking.

Me: ...Besides, I don't really trust people who don't like kids. And seeing as you have six, I am assuming you like them. And since you like kids, I am assuming you can be trusted. Which is good because I figure if you are going to have your head, hands, and utensils in my unmentionable areas, I need to trust you.

Imagine Jimmy's deep sigh here. I had gone too far. He knew it. And I knew it.

Dr.: This is going to be a fun nine months, isn't it?

You have no idea, Dr. S. No idea.

I am sad to say that our next appointment got even more awkward. And I haven't entirely figured out if Dr. S. finds my big mouth endearing or just plain creepy.

The appointment started out just fine. They weighed me first, which is always a traumatic experience...pregnant or not pregnant. I tried leaning a bit to trick the scale into a lower weight but it didn't work, so I simply closed my eyes.

As I sulked past the nurse's station, Dr S. hollered, " How are you today?" I gave him my overused, sarcastic reply of, "Oh you know...livin' the dream." And then I did the weirdest thing to ever be done in a doctor's office. I saluted the man.

I really cannot explain why I felt compelled to show such a level of patriotism, but I did. And it couldn't be undone.

Strike One.

And with that, I plopped down on the table. After dropping trough and covering up with the generous white sheet on the table, I begin to scan the champagne colored walls. I immediately began to wonder who decorates these offices. I suppose the meetings consist of banter around which colors exude fertility and hope...what shapes won't make an overly nauseous pregnant lady hurl, and which waiting room chairs will be wide enough for the most pregnant of pregnant patients.

 I want in on those meetings.

My thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door and the grand entrance of Dr. S and his nurse. We chatted a bit and then came the loaded question of, "How are you feeling? Any problems?"

Oh, doctor. You have opened the gate.

Me: Frankly, I am miserable. I am sick all the time and that Zofran just isn't working. I suppose I should be grateful but I am secretly feeling horrible. Any thoughts?

Dr.: Well, sick is good.

Me: Yes, I know. I just worry this baby will come out the shape of a saltine cracker. I mean, I eat mostly waffles, applesauce, and graham crackers. Is that a problem?

Dr.: (Glances at my chart) Well, you're gaining weight. That's good. Of course, it could be because you are eating so many carbs.

Me: Yes, thanks for pointing that out.

Dr.: Well, you should try to get a variety of healthy foods when you can. Besides, you need lots of fiber right now. Your digestive track slows down during pregnancy so fiber and fluids are important.

Me: While I understand this need for fiber, I don't want to be "that girl" on the elevator. Besides, my food hasn't been staying put long enough to digest. Can't I just have a beer?

Strike Two.

Dr.: A beer?

Me: Oh don't worry. I am not an alcoholic. I just love the smell of beer right now. I am tempted to take a sip of Jimmy's sometimes but I wanted your permission first. Again, most of my food isn't digesting anyways.

Dr.: I'd rather you didn't. As your friend, I would say take a sip. As your doctor, I would rather you didn't.

Me: Fine. You're the doc. No beer. How do you feel about pregnant ladies who eat ice cream for dinner? (wink, wink)

Strike Three.

I mean, I am no body language expert but one would assume that his blank stare indicated he wasn't amused. He might have actually been a bit concerned.

I can't be certain but I have a sneaking suspicion that Dr. S will be unavoidably detained during this baby's delivery.