The Problem with Being Pregnant

I'm normally a pretty nice person. At least, I think I am. Although after seeing a picture of myself in a local magazine, I have some serious doubts about the perception I have of myself and reality (side note: how long has my hair been that dingy color and why didn't anyone tell me? also, do I have a lazy eye?). I have my moments but generally, I'm nice enough.

I'm not always the most rational person, especially in situations that aren't going the way I'd like them to go. But luckily, the "nice" factor keeps the irrationality in check.

Unless I am pregnant. And unless the situation at hand is in reference to my pregnancy.

Several months ago, the geniuses that run the hospital where I delivered Arden concluded that all women are morons who don't know how to choose their own health care providers, because clearly, if we knew what we were doing we'd choose a female doctor. This conclusion prompted the severing of ties with all the male doctors in the women's clinic affiliated with the hospital (incidentally, the practice was started many years ago by the very doctors they let go).

I have nothing against female doctors, obviously. The OB who delivered Claire was a woman and I absolutely loved her. She is, without a doubt, the most dedicated, patient, kindest doctor I've ever known. If anyone has ever met their calling, it is Dr. Hays. But the fact is, I didn't choose her simply because she was a woman. I chose her because she was dedicated and patient and kind (also incredibly smart and had very cute hair).

When we moved here, I was very newly pregnant with Arden. I had to chose a new OB and I found one that I liked very much--who just happened to be male.

When word of the hospital's forward-thinking new policy on women's health choices spread, I knew what my choice would be. When the day came, I would follow my OB to his new practice, even if it meant driving an extra 20 minutes out of my way.

That day has come and I found myself calling the new clinic this week to schedule an appointment. The Appointment. The Ultrasound appointment. The Am I Keeping All This Pink Stuff or Buying New Blue Stuff appointment.

I was mildly (extremely) disappointed when the receptionist informed me that the first available appointment was a month away. If this were my first pregnancy, I'd be panicking at the thought of going six weeks between appointments, but this time around I'm just irritated at having to wait an extra two weeks before finding out the gender of this baby. After making a few grumbling comments about how I was glad I called the clinic instead of waiting around for them to call me like they were SUPPOSED TO TWO WEEKS AGO, I decided to let it go. On to more important details.

Me : So this will be my ultrasound, right?
Her, surprised: No, we've never seen you before. I can't schedule an ultrasound for you without ever seeing you.
Me: But I'll be twenty weeks! It's The Appointment.
Her: Well, we've never seen you before. And we don't even know Dr. P. We can't do an ultrasound until we have a diagnosis.
pause
Me, confused: Diagnosis of WHAT?
Her, pausing slightly as if I should already know this answer: Pregnancy.
Me, laughing hysterically and looking at my soccer ball belly: You want me to take a pregnancy test?!
Her: Well, we need to see you before we schedule anything else.

I won't recap the whole thing here, but let's just say the conversation went downhill from there. Add to that the fact that I called again today to rehash the whole situation and I'm sure I have a big "CRAZY PREGNANT LADY" (or worse) stamp on my chart now. I definitely didn't come across as nice. Or rational.

But at least I can blame it on my hormones. Wonder what HER excuse is?