I’m sitting in the waiting room for my annual physical, and I had originally planned to post something inspiring—something to remind you all that self-care isn’t just bubble baths and naps. It’s also being proactive: keeping up with exercise, screenings, pap smears, mammograms, and making sure your health actually gets the attention it deserves.
But, in true fashion, my life had other plans, and now I have a completely different story to tell. Let it serve as a reminder to schedule your physical… even if it doesn’t go perfectly, at least something good can come of it.
I usually shower at night because mornings with kids are chaotic, but last night I decided to skip it. I wanted to feel fresh for my exam this morning. I felt that was fair. Spoiler alert: it was not. I should’ve just taken the dang shower.
This morning, I handed the boys a magnet set and turned on an audiobook so they could occupy themselves while I attempted a full “everything” shower—the kind of shower you do before a pap smear, the kind that involves washing every nook and cranny, getting your hair done, shaving your legs… the works. And remember, I live in a tiny space with only about two gallons of hot water. I had envisioned stepping out like Cinderella after her fairy godmother worked her magic. Instead, I looked more like Mrs. Hannigan from Annie. No joke.
Water on, I lather up my hair, wash my face, scrub from top to bottom, when suddenly I hear the dreaded words: “Mommy! I have to pee pee!” I had taken him just before getting in, but apparently, that doesn’t count. Even though he’s potty trained, there is little grace when a toddler insists.
He couldn’t open the bathroom door, so I yelled for Big Brother to help—but of course, they didn’t hear me over the audiobook. With soapy hair piled high and my face covered in biodegradable, grey-water-safe soap, I step out to let him in. Cue: the slip. My back hits the wall, I twist around the tiny toilet, still with soap in my eyes, and suddenly… it’s not at all Cinderella vibes.
I’m fumbling, trying not to curse audibly (because toddlers are excellent parrot students), when he screams again: “Mommy! I have to pee pee now!” And he does. Partially in the potty, partially on me. I know not because I saw it, but because it was… warm. Whatever—back in the shower I go. At this point, my standards are very low. I rinse off, and just as I start to feel slightly human again, the hot water runs out—spent entirely on floor-cleaning duty. So I finish cold, skip shaving, and resign myself to my fate. I imagine my doctor will have fun later.
Oh, and during this entire chaos, two cats managed to get in, there was a minor lizard incident, and two people asked me for snacks. Less than ten minutes had passed—I was far from luxuriating.
Now, here I am, in the “old lady” section of the waiting room, surrounded by pamphlets about pelvic floor strength and vaginal dryness. This is where you end up after babies and years of life experience, after you’ve happily had your partner neutered (side note: is it neutered or spayed? I’ll Google that later). Across the hall, the maternity side is full of twenty-something ladies waddling around, fertile and glowing, and honestly? I am completely happy over here with the sandy-vag pamphlets. I don’t miss it.
The moral? Ladies, absolutely get your physicals—but take the shower the night before. It’ll save you, your dignity, and two gallons of hot water.
