Sep
8
I’ve been trying to remember if the nurse I had during my last Pap smear stuck her finger in my asshole or if there was an instrument of some kind. An instrument that was then inserted into my asshole.
I know, I know, you came here for kid pictures or whatever and here I am talking about things being crammed in my ass, but there is an actual train of thought that leads from a topic to the inside of my butt.
What I’m saying, aside from the fact that I find it a bit disturbing I can’t remember what exactly went in in my ass, is that the nurse in question was very young. I mean, she was as nice as could be and I liked her quite a bit right up until the moment when she asked me to bend over and squeal like a pig (I am paraphrasing), but the fact that she likely had no knowledge of a world that included V.I.C.I., the humanoid robot girl in Small Wonder, took a wildly uncomfortable situation and made it even more so. I don’t know why it’s worse to have a young person anally violate you, it just is.
There are certain professions I feel should be limited to people who are Older Than Myself, and gynecology is definitely one of them. Police officers should also not be my age or younger, especially if they’re wearing mirrored aviator shades like a total douchebag and writing me a goddamned 32 MPH-in-a-25-zone ticket.
The whole reason I was thinking of this recently is because most of the kindergarten teachers in Riley’s school are fairly young, and although this certainly doesn’t bother me (as long as they don’t suddenly lunge at my anus with some sort of probe), it doesn’t jive with the picture I have in my head of a teacher. This is because I am having an bizarrely difficult time adjusting to the idea that I am not a school-age student, but the mother of a school-age student. In my mind I’m still the one who will be graded and possibly sent to the pricipal’s office if I don’t straighten up and fly right; instead, I’m a thirty-seven-year-old woman who needs to interact with teachers like a GROWNUP instead of vying for approval or being vaguely worried that they’ll smack me with a ruler.
In the few days since school has started there have been a lot of adjustments—new routines, new responsibilities, new schedules. It’s all been good, but I look at myself—making lunches, filling out paperwork, talking with teachers, planning for my first PTA meeting—and I can hardly believe it. Is this . . . ME? I suppose that sounds a little ridiculous, but I don’t know how else to say it, really. It’s just sort of a momentous sort of thing, this new rite of motherhood. One that stirs up a strange swirl of old memories and associations and makes me wonder if I’m even remotely qualified for this shit.
It’s funny, I expected to be overwhelmed by the milestone of my child starting school, but I didn’t quite realize what an enormous new role it would be for me, too.
Anyway, I’m glad the teachers are young and generally look energetic and motivated and capable of dealing with their teeming Lord of the Flies throngs on a daily basis. But if any of them decides to leave kindergarten behind for a career in reproductive health, I’d like her to wait a few years, maybe develop some authoritative gray in her hair and wrinkles around her eyes, before donning the latex glove and gel lubricant and rooting around where the sun don’t shine. I’m just saying.
Sep
6
We had kind of an exciting morning around these parts:
By 12 PM, the school had already called me twice—once to tell me they didn’t have the right paperwork for Riley’s full day kindergarten registration and as a result I needed to come get him (I managed to convince the office manager to let him stay in his class, for the LOVE, while I rushed over to sign the paper in question), and once to tell me that Riley had bumped his head at recess. Our first school year: OFFICIALLY UNDERWAY.
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