…To the snatch doctor we go. Today, we are back to nether region #nostigma folks. Flange assessment and physiotherapy awaits and Newborn and I are dressed to the nines in honour of the sunny day; he’s in a still-glorious red, Nordic hand-me-down ‘gro and I’m in a black and coral dress over linen trousers with sunglasses to salvage a sense of attractiveness and harness the summer mood.
I had a brief fashion dilemma – do I wear Mrs. Doubtfire-esque suck me in skin coloured pants or frilly knickers? As I’m going to bear (and bare) all and probably cough and piss and discuss poo and be prodded I don’t know why that seems important, but because I have to find myself distractions I’ve gone for the ludicrous compromise of unattractive but shapely pants and shaving my legs.
We are chic and clenching and ready to rumble, wearing our anxieties with our very best togs. Here’s hoping that a few months of squeezing will have done something improving and important. I haven’t the strength of character to go into grizzly details, but I bloody hope things are on the up down there.
This said, as discussed on my guest post for crapatpregnancy, I do know my situation is not all that bad. I know lots of people who are piddling on their linen trousers in the dark and all alone. So my stresses about incontinence, and flipping and flapping about heading down to the depths of UCLH’s Physiotherapy Dept, Urogynae Physiotherapy Dept no less, are nowhere near as bad as worrying about urogynea issues without an appointment and a sense that help is possible and on the way. In that spirit, you poor beleaguered flanged-out readers, I will report back.