The Va-Jay-Jay Cheerleader

Note to any men, male relatives, or easily offended readers of this blog:  The following paragraphs will contain references to lady bits, va-jay-jay's, and other mysteries of the deep.  Please feel free to hunt off elsewhere for something to read.

For the remaining eight readers, let's discuss OB/GYNs.

I have been going to my current one for about four years.  Originally, I had seen someone else, but she no longer became an option on my insurance, and her practice offered up my current physician as a replacement.

After baring my lady bits to the world not once, not twice, but THREE times with the birth of my children, I stopped really caring too much about who takes a peek at my hoo-ha.  All I really need out of a GYN is a cervix swab and the daily prescription that keeps me from single-handedly maintaining the profits at Tampax, so honestly, one pair of hands is just like the other.

I should say, one speculum is just like any other.

Cue my introduction to the current lady bits inspector.

The first time I met her, I waited for the real doctor to come in and wondered if she was a high school student interning for the day with the nurses.

I'm not kidding.  She seriously looks like she is 15.  She is perky, chipper, and annoyingly adorable.  She could easily pass for a high school cheerleader, and at any moment, I half expected her to lead the room in a cheer for my excellent va-jay-jay.

But instead, she hiked up her shirt sleeves, slapped on the rubber gloves, and went deep into female territory.

Through the always-pleasant cervix swabbing conversation, I learned that she was only a year into her practice.

By my calculations, that would make her roughly the same age as my children.

Okay.  Maybe I exaggerate.

But only slightly.

It is a little disconcerting to start being older than the doctors that are taking care of you.  You expect wisdom to come with age, and assume that you automatically know more than everybody else who is younger.

You don't feel any older, yet almost overnight you become a woman with grey hair, wrinkles, and cobwebs on your uterus - all while kids that were born while you were in middle school suddenly are licensed physicians patting your hand and mumbling, There, there.

It's the stupid circle of life.

And next week, when I'm sitting in the stirrups, clapping along to the chants of, "Go!  Vagina, Go!" I will take comfort with this one thought:  I might be getting old, but the only hoo-ha I spend any time with on a daily basis is my own.

I can't say the same for the va-jay-jay cheerleader.

Red one! Blue one! Green one! Black one! (and that's just my right arm)

I remember the first time I saw this commercial. I really liked it then and mentally praised the brilliant ad agency who came up with such a gem. I may have even laughed out loud (though I am sure I did not LOL. I never LOL).

But that was before.

Before my life became this commercial. Before my arms sported permanent bruises in the shape of my children's fists. Before I could ride in the car and not panic with fear every time a car drove by.

For, you see, my kids take everything to the next level. Not only do they punch for VWs, but they invented the notorious "BM-Punch-You." And, "Hit You Honda." Then they even made up "Jeep Weep," named aptly for the crying you inevitably do after you are punched.

This pretty much means that I am getting slugged in the biceps every time a car passes us.

You know, like every 1.2 seconds or so.

And if you think for one minute that those punches don't hurt, then you've never been on the receiving end of Hannah's little fists of fury. Girlfriend packs herself some power in those scrawny little arms.

I am sore, and I am so over it.

So much so that I am selling my car and will now be calling my friends for rides. Plus, I'm drafting a court order for the neighbors across the street that will prohibit them from ever again opening their garage door.

You know, the garage that houses their GREEN ONE!

Stupid, clever ad agency. I'm not laughing now.



For Easter, I found these adorable little pots that came with seeds and soil, and got them for the kids. I thought the boys would likely have little interest in growing the plants, and figured the project would then be taken over by the princess.

Oh, how I forget the competitive nature that is our family.

We potted, planted, and watered each one on Easter Sunday and immediately the speculation and betting began. On whose plant would come up first. On whose plant would be the biggest. Or the strongest. On whose plant was going to dominate and destroy all the other plants.

And most of this trash talk came from the Husband.

By Easter night, we noticed that Chase's little red pot was overloaded with water. Apparently, he thought some extra water was the plant equivalent of steroids, and that a few extra doses would give him the advantage over his siblings.

Sadly, the principle doesn't quite work the same for plants as it does for the pro baseball players. It's been over a week now, and Chase's plant has yet to emerge from the soil at all. I think it didn't survive the flood.


McKay's grass seeds were the first to emerge, followed by Hannah's lone zinnia. My sunflower brought up the rear and has been the most entertaining, what with the actual seed pod still clinging to the plant that burst from inside it. Every day the kids check to see if it's fallen off, and every day it holds steady.

Watching it kind of reminds me what it's like to be a mama. You nuture this little bud inside you, are literally torn in half birthing it, and then you devote all your energy to caring for your new seedling. Your previously charming and possibility-filled life now has one singular goal: Hold on tight with clenched fists and gritted teeth for as long as you possibly can. All the while, the indifferent little seed wastes no time in shoving your shrivled self out of the way so it can have its day in the sun.

Don't worry, sister sunflower. We mamas feel your pain.

Our seedlings do the very same thing.