After much reflection I have finally deduced that my mother may have affected my decision to become a gynecologist.  

I suppose if I were so inclined I would have previously spent a lot of money on psychoanalysis, but I can’t bear the thought.  It is not that I am a Scientologist; I just think a lot of problems can be solved in the shoe department at Nordstrom’s.  

Your shoes will always be there for you.  So I had this revelation while meditating on the latest Kate Spades.

At first I was aghast at the thought. How could that be?  Kate, I wondered, are you leading me astray?

But then, as if in slow motion, the truth burst from my subconscious.  My family is vedy British.  But not the England of Tony Blair, or Posh and Becks, or Borat, but rather The Empire in Her glory days, only somewhat askew.  Think equal parts Queen Victoria and Monty Python.  It’s a no-sex-please -we’re-British screamfest with everyone yelling about who had it worse in the war.  

But trust me, a Monty Python skit isn’t so funny when you live it every day.

The word vagina was never mentioned in my house: it was like garlic to a vampire.  

I grew up firmly entrenched in the notion that my parents had sex exactly twice (I have an older brother).  And then the very epicenter of my existence was rocked in my early forties when my mother confided that she had a miscarriage after my older brother was born.  It was like trying to assimilate a whole new dimension.  

As comfortable as I am talking about sexuality at work, when conversation veers to The Empire, I worry that I will have a seizure.  It is like trying to load a PC program on a Mac, my neural circuits are simply not equipped to handle it.  I am not sure what prompted her to drop that emotional bombshell, but all I could think about for days was, “Wow, I was almost never born."  

After all there is only so much one can do for Queen and Country.

So aghast at the mere mention of the word vagina -- none of my mothers friends know what I do for a living. I am a generic doctor to the church and cardigan set.  I remember distinctly telling my mother about my work when she replied, “Why can’t you do something for women’s health?"

Over cucumber sandwiches (you know the little ones with the crusts cut off) I asked, “Pray mother, what is tending to women’s health?”  

“Why reading mammograms of course,” she replied. 

That’s when I finally realized it was all about the vagina.  Having a daughter who was up to her elbows in them every day, well, really. . . 

How do you explain that one over bridge?

By Jennifer Gunter

Labels: Jennifer Gunter, Vaginas

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# posted by Writing Mamas Salon @ 12:59 PM