I just made an appointment with a new gynecologist. For the last few years I’ve been bouncing around to whichever nurse practitioner could take me because I was healthy and basically only needed my annual to reaffirm my health and refill my prescription.

But at 25, there was a reason I wanted a real doctor. And when I asked my boss if she liked hers, she started gushing about how wonderful she is. So I called and made an appointment.

She’s not just a GYN. She’s an OB too.

No, I’m not pregnant. Not yet. But the reality is that two years from now I very well could be. And I wanted to be sure that when that time came, I hadΒ a doctor that I already knew and was comfortable with.

Some days I wish the time was now instead of a few years down the road. Last night I headed over to my boss’s house. Ashley was babysitting her children and we planned on a yummy dinner, some good wine and some great conversation. (What actually happened was better than expected. You can read her recap here. Clearly, we like wine.)

I arrived just in time for the 18-month old’s bath. It took all my willpower not to scoop him up and devour his chubby little thighs. I did, however, manage to get a bunch of kisses, a few high fives, the cutest little hug and the joy of hearing him say “More Nana?” which translates into “More Molly?” It doesn’t take much, people. Wear a miniature Beastie Boys shirt and look at me with big blue eyes and I’ll melt into a puddle of goo.

It helps if you’re also 18-months old. Typically men in their 20s wearing a diaper and a Beastie Boys shirt don’t do it for me.

I left with the warm fuzzies and my ovaries jumping around a little bit saying, “When? Now? No? How ’bout now? OK, OK. Now?”

And then I remembered that there’s still a few years to go. And a few visits with the mean, cold duck lips.

Oh come on, you know about the duck lips, don’t you? No? Then I leave you with an exert from one of my favorite passages of the Vagina Monologues. You’re welcome.

“Then there’s those exams. Who thought them up? There’s got to be a better way to do those exams. Why the scary paper dress that scratches your t!ts and crunches when you lie down so you feel like a wad of paper someone threw away. Why the rubber gloves? Why the flashlight all up there like Nancy Drew working against gravity, why the Nazi steel stirrups, the mean cold duck lips they shove inside you? What’s that?

My vagina’s angry about those visits. It gets defended weeks in advance. It won’t go out of the house. Then you get there. Don’t you hate that? “Scoot down. Relax your vagina.” Why? So you can shove mean cold duck lips inside it. I don’t think so.Why can’t they find some nice delicious purple velvet and wrap it around me, lay me down on some feathery cotton spread, put on some nice friendly pink or blue gloves, and rest my feet in some fur covered stirrups? Warm up the duck lips. Work with my vagina.”

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