I recently spoke to a good friend and mentioned that in the last week I’d taken my aging parents to various doctors. To which she remarked that our parents tend to look forward to these visits with the same giddy anticipation we feel when a rare night of complete, uninterrupted sleep is promised.
She then asked when I had last taken the time to get a real check up — and by that she excluded quickly jotted prescriptions from my kids’ pediatrician. Truthfully, I can’t recall when I last saw my doctor. I admitted that the only appointment I really want to make is not with a family doctor but with a dermatologist.
Why? Well, for the past year or so, my children have pointed out that “something is wrong with my face.”
What they see on my skin are moles or tags that same said friend explained are common after childbirth. If you connect the dots, the blemishes on my skin are actually their fault. However, I can’t hold seven-year-old twins and a five-year-old accountable for that; or, can I?
But really, this isn’t about how my kids are directly responsible for some of the irreversible changes to my body, or how I sometimes glance in the mirror and sigh, in a not so dreamy kind of way.
This is about disordered priorities. The size of my pores concerns me more than my general health.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll get that appointment with our doctor — besides, I need his referral for the dermatologist. 🙂