Yesterday I had a routine checkup with my endocrinologist whom I've warmed up to these past several years. He's kind of a quirky guy, dead-on serious when he wants to be, not cuddly and cozy at all, but not unfriendly, either. I like him.
Anyway, me being a freakshow by carrying a (gasp) fifth baby, I was stealed for some ridicule/horror/stifled shock. Doctors, especially, I've found--even in my Catholic hospital--don't hide their disdain for fertility. Imagine my surprise . . .
His intern greeted the news of New Baby with enthusiasm, joy and delight. From all business and a pretty invasive throat exam she bubbled effusively: "I hope I can have as many as I want. I hope I can at least have three." Genuine excitement at the thought of babies--in the medical profession! I was stunned.
Then he walks in the room moments later, big goofy grin on his face: "Mrs. King!" he bellows cheerfully. He was beaming! This man who opens each appointment by asking if I'm pregnant again--in a jovial way--was clearly tickled. He shook my hand and held it longer than normal, wished me well and asked about names. I said "Carl," (a total lie: I hate that name, but that's his first name) and we had a good laugh.
It was a nice moment. I haven't gotten a lot of grief for this pregnancy at all--only some worried looks and disbelief. I'll take the joy and delight any day--it's how I feel about Mr. New Baby!
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