You're not the boss of me

So I have this theory that your earliest childhood memory is somehow linked to what will become an issue in your life, or something you feel strongly about, or a personality trait that defines you.  For me this memory is of preschool.  I was on the bus with the other kids, and at the time was totally in love with these twin sisters because I found them fascinating.  Also they were a little older and you know how that is for kids – if someone’s even six months older than you, they’re like a god.  Anyway, so a boy was picking on them, so I smacked him.  A teacher saw and told me to go straight to the principal’s office when we got to school.  When we got to school, I instead went to my classroom and sat down and nonchalantly played with some plastic horses.  You see, I just didn’t feel like I’d done anything wrong, so I shouldn’t be punished.  I was protecting my friends.  Nobody ever followed up to come get me, and that was the end of it.  But I think the reason I remember this is because a big theme in my life is I hate, and I mean HATE, being told what to do, and have a real problem with authority figures.  I believe this is the reason I run my own business, and is at least part of the reason I’m not married. 

Today I had my first appointment with the midwife instead of the ob.  And she was a lovely woman, and I will continue to see her.  But maybe it was the lack of sleep (appt was at 8:30…and I had to wait a half hour…and I’d gotten almost no sleep so was pretty out of sorts) or maybe it was just that I’m getting sick of all these visits, but…I have to admit I’m getting a little tired of being told what to do all the time, and wish I could just not see anyone anymore until I have a problem or actually go into labor.  I feel like saying, “I’ve got a hand-held Doppler, I’m good, see you at the end of March.”  Now I realize I’m just being silly but I’m just getting a little fed up.  It’s always the same thing.  Why aren’t you exercising, don’t eat this, watch your weight, sign up for a million classes and tours RIGHT NOW, what about breastfeeding, you’re thinking about breastfeeding, right?  You’re going to breastfeed, RIGHT???  My purse is bursting with cards and referrals and recommendations.  Which it should be.  They of course have to give you all the information you can get your hands on; it’s the responsible thing to do.  Yet somehow I felt my blood pressure rising as I sat there absorbing this tidal wave of rapid-fire information.  Buy a pregnancy girdle support thingee, don’t eat pasta, don’t get up without supporting yourself with your hands, etc etc.  I want to just yell, “people have been pregnant for thousands of years without all this crap, I’m sure I’ll figure it out!”  When she suggested I take some birthing classes (which I of course will), I couldn’t help getting all agitated and said I’m not going anywhere where they’re going to force natural birth down my throat and make me feel all guilty if I want pain meds.  To her credit she said anything vaginal is considered “natural” (news to me) and nobody’s going to make me feel guilty for asking for an epidural.  So, good.  She did seem very accepting about people’s choices which is great.  The last thing I wanted to do was align myself with some lady who’s going to shame me over every little thing. 

And just for the record, even though I put on 6 lbs this month(although in my defense I was wearing boots at the time – I believe the real number is more like four or five) she said my weight gain was right on track.  But then she did tell me not to eat pasta or cheese or drink juices.  Um…that’s pretty much been my entire diet for the last four months.  Would she buy it if I claimed my half-Italianness and that I simply must have pasta at all times because of my heritage?  Can I claim, “but the baby likes it!”  Oh, and she’ll have to claw the grapefruit juice out of my cold, dead hand.  Just sayin’.

She did go over my NT results and anatomy scan and reassured me that if they’d found anything wrong they would have called me right away.  She checked on her computer and said everything looked great.  So that’s a sigh of relief there.

I realize my weird reaction today was entirely about being sleepy and cranky and maybe a little hormonal and had nothing to do with this nice lady.  But I’m just sick of hospitals, sick of medical crap, sick of being poked and prodded.  As I sat in the depressing exam room waiting and reading the wall posters about cervical cancer I just thought to myself, “ugh, get me out of here.”  I’m kind of over it.  But the sad thing is it only gets worse from here – as soon as 2012 hits the visits get more frequent (and far more intrusive, I’m sure) and then the baby’s here, and then bring on the guilt and shaming!  Sometimes I envy my mother bringing me up in the crazy religion that doesn’t allow any medical intervention – she never had to go through all that crap with me.  No pediatricians, no vaccines, no nothing.  Of course she took my life in her hands doing this, but I turned out all right (sheer luck, I’m convinced).  Still I envy her the lack of invasion on our family’s privacy.  There are going to be a lot of people invading my and my son’s privacy and this above all else completely freaks me out.

I am going to have to learn how to set boundaries, this I know.  And more importantly, I’m going to have to learn how to just get over it and be polite.  People are going to offer unsolicited advice, they’re going to judge me, and I have to just deal with it.  Whatever I felt today I’m going to have to learn how to cope with a little better – everyone’s just doing their jobs, and they have my best interests at heart.  Would it be better to see an ob who didn’t care how much weight I’d gained, who didn’t ask if I was exercising or take my blood pressure?  Of course not.  So whatever chip I have on my shoulder about people prying into my private life I’m going to have to take down, at least to some extent.  Still…I kind of don’t wanna.  I still want to yell, “you’re not the boss of me!” and stomp my feet like a five-year-old.