So the other day my daughter’s peeing on the potty only to stop midstream and start screaming bloody murder. Hmm, that’s weird— usually I’m the one screaming bloody murder as she walks around the bathroom with toilet paper soaked in urine still hanging from her tush.
After this keeps happening all morning long, I realize I have two choices. Call the doctor or stop feeding her liquids. Two hours later I find her on all fours drinking from the cat’s water bowl, so I make that dreaded phone call. As much as I beg, the receptionist says no they cannot diagnose her over the phone and that we’ll have to come in. “Okay, then can you please hide the germ-infested train table in the waiting room before we get there?” I plead. Again, she declines. Bitch. We put on our Hazmat suits and head to the hot zone.
NURSE: What seems to be the problem?
ME: You mean besides the fact that she caught TB and Ebola from the train table out front?
NURSE: (blank stare)
ME: She has a UTI.
NURSE: Let’s not jump to any conclusions. What are her symptoms?
Oh no, lady, I’m not jumping to conclusions. I checked WebMD and it says she has a UTI (and cancer too because WebMD says everything could be cancer). The nurse kindly hands me a urine sample cup and directs us to the bathroom. After I turn the water on full blast and promise my daughter an M&M factory and a trip to Disneyworld, she finally manages to squeeze out about a millimeter of pee-pee they can check.
DOCTOR: (way too chipper) Well, the good news is it’s not a UTI.
ME: What?! WebMD is never wrong! Well, except for that time it told me I had small pox… and cancer.
After blatantly lying about the UTI test results, the doctor takes a peek where the sun don’t shine.
DOCTOR: Ahhh, I see the culprit. Your daughter’s vagina is broken.
Okay, so maybe I’m paraphrasing a little, but that’s pretty much what she said. She proceeds to show me a big ole cut inside my daughter’s hoo-ha, and you can only guess what’s going through my head— I didn’t do it. I swear.
After praying the doctor isn’t legally required to call DSS, I rack my brain to figure out what happened. I vaguely remember my daughter complaining to me that her tush hurt when she fell on a rope ladder at the park the other day. Being the good parent that I am, I told her to shake it off. And now her vajayjay is broken and I’m going to go to prison for it. Well, at least the orange jumpsuit will hide my muffin top. And orange is in now, right?