giving the brazilian a break

Aside from the birth order of my family, I've always been the youngest. 

I think it started in school because one of the many places we lived had a later date threshold for kindergarten, although it's nice to think I was just more brilliant than most! My lack of older siblings or cousins left me snugly and warm in this unfamiliar and youthful role among my peers.  But having kids is a great equalizer, and with everyone deciding a different age in which they'd like to begin popping them out, I got older in more ways than one.

Now my closest friends are every possible age, some even 8 to 10 years younger than I am.  It pains me to think how much more carefree and vibrant I might feel now if I wasn't 30 when we ushered Logan into the world (or 32 with Riley, or 34 with Finn.)  Although, even to feel younger, I wouldn't change a thing.

Yesterday I had my annual GYN check up.  I still drive 45 minutes to the laid-back, no-nonsense cool chick who was the only doctor in the practice that would entertain the idea of a VBAC, but who eventually delivered Riley and Finn via cesarean after my valiant attempt, just like Logan. 

When my wheels hit the pavement at each visit, there's a rush of nostalgia for that time and place, for the endless surprising possibilities I held in a burgeoning belly; a freeing and total love and acceptance of the unknown.  I suppose finding a closer and more convenient practitioner seems a little too much like cutting the cord that connects me to those cherished memories.

No worries, this isn't really a serious post.  I actually arrived at the office under a shroud of embarrassment.  You see, with youthful excitement, our recent weekend away inspired an aggressive bikini wax, one that I might not have undertaken had I remembered the doctor's visit in my schedule.  I went so far as to tell the doc before the exam.  "Don't think I'm some sort of weirdo," I blushed.

"Come on, Molly," she said.  "These days, anyone one with any hair at all is in the minority!"

Well, that sort of made me feel better. 

But the bastion of my increasing age crept back again and sunk in completely when it took two post-its to update my meds.  And when I left, albeit healthy, but with prescriptions for a now annual mammogram, cholesterol testing and a pelvic floor strengthening physical therapist?  Not only did I curse my experience with Insanity and our damn trampoline, I laughed out loud. 

In preparation for the appointment, baring my Brazilian had me in a regretful tizzy all weekend long.  At the visit's culmination, it was the only thing that made me feel young.  Never regret jumping out of your comfort zone - it just might save you in the end!