Not unless they really want to, of course.
Kate also had an appointment, at the Baby Clinic, so off the pair of us went in the car.
My parents had taken Kate to the clinic a couple of times already, so it was old hat to her. But I wasn't really prepared for the cacophony of crying that greeted us on arrival. There seemed to be several thousand bawling babies with harassed and distraught mothers in the waiting room.
In fact, some of the mothers were crying louder than their children. "If only he'd stop crying," one women was saying tearfully to no one in par- ticular. "Just for five minutes."
"My God," I thought in horror. I suddenly realized how lucky I was.
Kate had her checkup before me, so I carried her in her car seat into the examination room. The nurse was a glamorous red-haired young woman from Galway. Why are nurses always good-looking and sexy?
I'm sure there's some old legend that explains it.
Long, long ago there was a tribe of women who were excessively beau- tiful. The men were maddened by lust for them and they made all the other women feel inadequate and horrible. All kinds of riots and outbreaks of violence occurred. Homes broke up as previously happily married men fell in love with these babes. Women from the non-good-looking tribes killed themselves because they could never compete with these sirens.
Something had to be done.
So God decreed that all the good-looking women had to become nurses and wear truly awful lace-up shoes and revolting A-line dresses that make their butts look huge, so that their attractiveness would be toned down considerably. And to this very day good-looking women have to become nurses so that their beauty is diluted by the hideous uniforms. Although how
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this little fable of mine squares with supermodels and their revealing and flattering clothes, I'm at a loss to explain.
Anyway, never mind.
The nurse closed the door firmly behind us, but the noise of the roaring children in the waiting room was still perfectly audible, interspersed now and again with wails of "Just five minutes, that's all I ask."
"Doesn't the noise drive you mad?" I asked her curiously.
"Not at all," she said as she examined Kate. "I don't even hear it any- more."
Kate was so good, she didn't even cry.
I was very proud of her.
I felt like opening the door and saying, in schoolmarm fashion, to all the children out there, "Look, this is how you're supposed to behave. Observe this model child in here and imitate."
I watched the nurse as she inspected Kate and her vital signs.
"She's putting on weight just fine," said the nurse.
"Thank you." I beamed proudly.
"She's a perfectly healthy baby." The nurse smiled.
"Thank you," I said again.
I opened the door to leave and a fresh wave of screeching sent me reeling. We fought our way back through the throng of red-faced and yelling chil- dren. From what I could gather, a bunch of them were getting their shots and this was contributing to the general upset.
I picked my way carefully through the deafening crowd, carrying Kate. As I thankfully closed the door on the racket behind me, the last thing I heard was that poor woman wailing "Even three minutes. I'd settle for three."
Then we had to wait for a while until it was my turn to see the doctor. I read a copy of Woman's Own that dated from sometime around the turn of the century ("Crinolines are definitely out this autumn"). Kate had a little sleep.
Eventually I was called and in we went.
The doctor was a nice old codger. Gray suit, gray hair, vague kindly manner.
"Hello, ah yes, Claire, yes Claire and baby er Catherine,"
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he said, reading from the notes on his desk. "Come in and sit down."
After a moment he looked up at the chair in front of him and when I wasn't there his glance darted anxiously around the room, wondering where I had gone.
I had placed Kate's car seat on the floor and I was over at the examining couch with my underwear off and my feet in the stirrups with a speed that left his head spinning.
Old habits die hard.
The next time I'd have to go to the doctor, no matter what my complaint, from an earache to a sprained wrist, I'd be hard-pressed to stop myself from whipping off my underwear and clambering up onto the couch.
The doctor did whatever it was he did, involving that old friend of mine, the lubricated glove.
I'm sorry if I'm being revolting.
There was a time when I would have felt faint at even the thought of having a Pap smear. But after being pregnant and giving birth, I think I could have a hysterectomy under just local anesthetic and still be sitting up and cheerfully discussing last night's TV with the surgeon.
Hell, why bother with the anesthetic?
"You've healed beautifully," he told me, making it sound like a great achievement.
"Thank you," I said, glowing, smiling up at him from between my legs.
I felt as though I was five years old and had got all my math homework right at school.
"Yes, no complications there at all," he continued. "Has all the bleeding stopped yet?"
(sorry about this, I won't go on about it for long.)
"Yes, it stopped about a week ago," I told him.
"And the stitches have healed perfectly," he said, continuing to peer and poke.
"Thank you." I smiled again.
"Right, you can get down now," he told me.
"So is everything else all right?" he asked as I got dressed.
"Fine," I said. "Fine."
"Um, when can I have sex again?" I suddenly blurted out.
(Now why did I ask that?)
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"Well, your six weeks are up, so anytime you like," he said genially. "You could start right now." He threw back his head and guffawed loudly. Then he stopped abruptly as--I assume--visions of the medical council hearings and motions to have him fired began to swim before him.
There's a very fine line between an acceptable bedside manner and a lewd suggestion. Perhaps Dr. Keating hadn't quite grasped the difference yet.
"Ahem," he said, calming himself down. "Yes, anytime you like."
"Will it hurt?" I asked anxiously.
"It may feel a little bit uncomfortable at first, but it shouldn't feel painful as such. Ask your husband to be particularly gentle with you."