gyNOOOO!!

This morning was my dreaded annual check up (more like check down) with my gyno. Technically, it’s actually been two years since I was last, well, probed, and he finally tracked me down and forced me to come. These lovely appointments always include, but are not necessarily limited to

-pap-smearage
-boob checkage
-ripping away all my dignity and self-esteem, not to mention my personal space
-putting me in a constant state of worry over my body size and/or potential bodily smell
-lecturing me on my body weight

Is it supposed to feel like casual chit-chat when your gyno tells you that a normal breast feels like cottage cheese stretched over a water balloon? Is it worsened by the fact he is saying this while he is actually, at that very awful, prolonged, agonizing moment, feeling me up and squishing my cottage cheese beneath his fingers? And why am I worrying if my cottage cheese feels nice? And does cottage cheese feel different over different water balloons? (At this point, I may have entirely been dissociating.)

And is it natural to feel fat when he’s checking your ovaries and uterus and tells you that you have “plenty of room in there”?
I certainly did.

I can’t complain, though, because really, in the end, it was this man who safely brought this little guy into the world.

And, in gratitude, I suppose I can endure some awkward boob and va jay-jay talk.
I owe him.
A lot.

Oh, and speaking of, well, breasticles, Cade said to me today as I was changing, Mama’s boobs! After wondering for a brief, albeit enraged second where he learned that word, I firmly said, No, it’s Mama’s chest. Her CHEST. He then replied, very reverently, Mama’s chest. It’s preeeetty.

At least it was my son, and not my gyno, who told me my chest was pretty.

And, very, very gratefully, my son made no mention of cottage cheese.