Our fourth Bonnie Granola class occurred after we had already moved to the W-S.
We would be seeing our new doctor early in the day and then heading over to Raleigh for the class after a quick “let the dog out to potty” stop at home. Or so we thought.
The doctor’s appointment turned into an all day sit-a-thon at our new place complete with a “let’s see how many pregnant teens we can cram in here” contest. When the fourth or fifth beach ball bearing high schooler walked in I simply couldn’t take it anymore, and did what any 36 week pregnant woman in a new city without a doctor would do: I cried.
Evidently agreeing to see someone so late in their pregnancy is not the most ideal situation and since multiple other doc’s had declined my business this place was it… no matter how many members of the Homecoming Court came waltzing through the door. After being subjected to answer more questions than people applying for American citizenship we finally saw the doctor.
A doctor, whom we still have to reassure… that yes, I have had prenatal care up until this point and no, I do not sell crack for a living.
I am now contemplating wearing a card board sign around my neck that says something like…”we just moved, for work, we do not sell drugs or have keg stand competitions on the weekends- really, I take a prenatal vitamin.”
About three seconds into the appointment with the doctor I decide I really don’t like him and about five minutes in I decide I want to move back to The Springs forever.
Among multiple other grievances I am certain he was the inspiration for the South Park character Mr. Mackey. He tells us that at 36 weeks I am dilated and oh by the way, our baby is breech, mkay? “Considering the information at hand it would probably be best to go ahead and schedule a C-section now- probably for next week.”
I smile and hope that it is somehow being communicated that what I would really rather be doing is spitting venom at his face. C-section, 36 weeks?
I don’t think so Dr. Mackey.
Sorry, I don’t know what your golf game schedule looks like for the next few weeks but if Bonnie Granola has taught me anything, it is that baby stays in there until she is 40 weeks unless labor begins on its own.
I refuse to schedule a C-section and four or five hours later we finally emerge from what I have decided is an environment directly impacted by Katy Perry’s song Teenage Dream.
All that to say, we are running late.
Really late.
And now, we have to drive two hours to get to Bonnie Granola.
We make the stop by the house, run through Chick-Fil-A (maybe waffle fries will help little Ms. Mia turn around), and hop on the interstate.
Where, we sit. Forever.
After thirty minutes of sitting and a few episodes of spilled Chick-Fil-A sauce later, we decide we cannot make it and John calls Bonnie Granola. He tells her the latest development and she promises to email us some resources about our situation.
She hangs up only after offering her last piece of advice… it is too early for a C-section, don’t let them do it.
We know Bonnie, oh how we know.
We turn around and head home… I cannot believe we have missed a Bonnie Granola, I cannot believe Mia is breech; I cannot believe there are so many pregnant teens in one concentrated location.
Where have we moved?
After much discussion we both agree we really miss Bonnie Granola.
We would be seeing our new doctor early in the day and then heading over to Raleigh for the class after a quick “let the dog out to potty” stop at home. Or so we thought.
The doctor’s appointment turned into an all day sit-a-thon at our new place complete with a “let’s see how many pregnant teens we can cram in here” contest. When the fourth or fifth beach ball bearing high schooler walked in I simply couldn’t take it anymore, and did what any 36 week pregnant woman in a new city without a doctor would do: I cried.
Evidently agreeing to see someone so late in their pregnancy is not the most ideal situation and since multiple other doc’s had declined my business this place was it… no matter how many members of the Homecoming Court came waltzing through the door. After being subjected to answer more questions than people applying for American citizenship we finally saw the doctor.
A doctor, whom we still have to reassure… that yes, I have had prenatal care up until this point and no, I do not sell crack for a living.
I am now contemplating wearing a card board sign around my neck that says something like…”we just moved, for work, we do not sell drugs or have keg stand competitions on the weekends- really, I take a prenatal vitamin.”
About three seconds into the appointment with the doctor I decide I really don’t like him and about five minutes in I decide I want to move back to The Springs forever.
Among multiple other grievances I am certain he was the inspiration for the South Park character Mr. Mackey. He tells us that at 36 weeks I am dilated and oh by the way, our baby is breech, mkay? “Considering the information at hand it would probably be best to go ahead and schedule a C-section now- probably for next week.”
I smile and hope that it is somehow being communicated that what I would really rather be doing is spitting venom at his face. C-section, 36 weeks?
I don’t think so Dr. Mackey.
Sorry, I don’t know what your golf game schedule looks like for the next few weeks but if Bonnie Granola has taught me anything, it is that baby stays in there until she is 40 weeks unless labor begins on its own.
I refuse to schedule a C-section and four or five hours later we finally emerge from what I have decided is an environment directly impacted by Katy Perry’s song Teenage Dream.
All that to say, we are running late.
Really late.
And now, we have to drive two hours to get to Bonnie Granola.
We make the stop by the house, run through Chick-Fil-A (maybe waffle fries will help little Ms. Mia turn around), and hop on the interstate.
Where, we sit. Forever.
After thirty minutes of sitting and a few episodes of spilled Chick-Fil-A sauce later, we decide we cannot make it and John calls Bonnie Granola. He tells her the latest development and she promises to email us some resources about our situation.
She hangs up only after offering her last piece of advice… it is too early for a C-section, don’t let them do it.
We know Bonnie, oh how we know.
We turn around and head home… I cannot believe we have missed a Bonnie Granola, I cannot believe Mia is breech; I cannot believe there are so many pregnant teens in one concentrated location.
Where have we moved?
After much discussion we both agree we really miss Bonnie Granola.
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