A number of things change once you have a child. You go through a time machine that immediately gives you gray hair and wrinkles. You start to think a free trip to Hawaii might not be worth it because you have to go through the TSA line. And you get to a point where you can share pretty much any bodily function with your husband. The key words to that last sentence being “with your husband,” unless of course you are a jackass who shares TMI on a semi-weekly basis through her blog.
But lately I’ve realized there’s one other group of people who tend to over-share information about bodily functions with absolutely anyone. The over-seventy crowd. Just the other day I mentioned to my grandma that I was a little sick, and this is how she responded.
“Do you have diarrhea?”
I have two questions for her question:
A. Why would you jump to this conclusion because actually I just had a head cold?
B. Do you really want to know the status of my doodie? Really?
Anyway, this story is just a lead-in to the main story of my blog, which actually isn’t even my story. My friend Esmerelda— which I’ve obviously made up to conceal her real identity because no one really knows people with that name unless they live on the border or near a Disney castle— traveled to her in-laws’ place for a
mini vacation very long weekend.
My friend Esmerelda is pregnant, not as pregnant as I am, but close. (I hope my elementary school teacher isn’t reading this because she would scold me and say you can’t be a little bit pregnant, but come on, we all know what I mean.) Of course as it always happens, a little medical situation arose on Saturday evening for Esmerelda. How is it that the human body never has medical issues on Monday morning? It always waits until the weekend, and if you’re traveling and it’s the weekend, it’s three times as likely to happen.
Esmerelda’s in-laws were out for the evening at an important work function, and she would have just gone to the hospital to get checked out, but her husband thought he should call his parents to let them know where they were going, you know, just to be responsible. That’s where the fun began.
“Hi, Dad,” her husband said into the phone. “Now there’s no need to be alarmed, but Esmerelda has a small female issue and we’re going to make a quick stop at the hospital just to be overcautious since she’s pregnant. Oh, and don’t mention this to mom or anyone else, please. It’s no big deal.”
What’s the first thing that happens? His Dad hangs up the phone, runs to tell his wife and everyone else who happens to be standing in earshot. Of course, Esmerelda was totally fine… at least until the next day when she and her husband ran into his parents’ friends.
“Oh honey, are you okay? We heard about your problem. Were you bleeding?”
Of course Esmerelda looked them right in the eye and said, “Yes, I was bleeding from my vagina and I hope we can talk in more detail about this.” No, not really, but that’s what I wish she said.
I’ve come to a conclusion after hearing her story. I mean a conclusion other than when I laugh really hard a little pee comes out even though I had a c-section with my first child. What’s up with that? My conclusion is that as more people I know pass the age of seventy, I’m going to start being very honest with them. For example, the next time my grandma asks if I have diarrhea, I’ll say something like, “No, Grandma, my doodie is actually quite firm today.” She probably won’t flinch, but it’ll make me feel a whole lot better. And maybe I’ll take it even a step further and start asking them some throw-up-in-your-mouth-inducing questions. None come to mind right now, but I’m sure they will once I give birth and start drinking again. Heavily.