I read somewhere that new mothers are flooded with a quick-bonding hormone right after childbirth. The idea is that it will help her bond with the new baby, but sometimes I think the bonding splashes over onto other people in the room, too. At least, this is the best explanation I can come up with for the fact that I have a strangely fond opinion of my doctor, considering he’s a regular guy about my dad’s age that I only see for a few hours a year.
Therein lies the problem: I like* him, and I want him to like* me. I hope he thinks of me as intelligent, witty, sophisticated, and wise beyond my years. But in our infrequent encounters, I am always at a distinct social disadvantage: holding a cup of my own urine, wearing socks and a paper dress, standing on a scale, or, oh yes– giving birth to a child, with all the indignity that entails.
I do my best to present myself as well as possible– I shave my legs, check in promptly for my appointments, carry an interesting book, make comments about international affairs, choose shoes that don’t make my feet smell– but I’m working against a tide of all the other less-than-glamorous impressions that I have made.
What’s a girl to do?
Starting in June I will be going in for more frequent visits, so I’m studying the latest issue of Reader’s Digest to stock up on good jokes and trivia. And, of course, I’m saving my most embarrassing questions for WebMD.
*Of course I do not mean “like-like.” What is this, sixth grade? I’m being entirely appropriate and non-romantic here.