My 2-Year-Old Daughter is Wearing a Panty Shield: Moments of Levity in a High-Risk Pregnancy

There haven’t been very many fun moments in this pregnancy but there have been a few. Who says it’s all bad news (and too much information) coming from Little Miss Sunshine? So how did my daughter end up proudly sporting a Carefree Lite Day Pantyshield? Well, those of you with kids who are mobile know you can never go to the bathroom without an audience. If you’re not quite there yet, trust me, you will be.

Bear with me here for a little background information. In order to help prevent another disastrous infection like the one that ended my pregnancy with LC, I have been using an acid gel nightly. Since what goes up must come down, I use pantyshields to absorb the run-off.

Now I rarely have any privacy in the bathroom because Troll Girl (TG) either hears me go in there or her sixth sense that detects when she might me missing something kicks in and she drops her baby like a bad habit and bolts to my side. Yes, I’ve tried locking the door.

She immediately muscles her way to a full view of the situation. Then comes the commentary: “Mama, you go peepee in your underpants? Mama, you NOT get a treat. Or my personal favorite, “Mama, your underpants a little bit broken.” Then she proceeds to demand a pantyshield for herself despite my efforts to dissuade her; I draw the line when she wants them solely for the purpose of sticking them to her arms and legs. She’s allowed one, which she deftly opens, peels back the paper, and expertly places in the crotch of her beloved brother’s hand-me-down, Bob the Builder briefs. Then off she goes, a big-wheel driving, pantyshield-wearing force to be reckoned with. I stand in awe of this child every single day.

The other funny thing that is happening involves Troll Girl’s use of the Doppler, a hand-held gadget used to hear the baby’s heartbeat. I rented one to combat the force of my catastrophic imagination; that is, I use it to confirm that our baby is in fact alive.

TG loves this gadget and almost every day, sometimes more than once a day, she subjects me to this treatment. It goes like this: she comes marching over to my spot in the couch and says, “Mama, I do your heartbeat?” It’s not really a question even though it is posed as such. Then she grabs the tube of goo from my tray o’ crap, unscrews the cap, and squirts some around the base of the wand. She turns on the device, yanks up my shirt, and positions the wand on my belly. She listens ever-so-briefly, not attempting to actually find the heartbeat, then cocks her head and inquires, “All done?” Then, swear to God, she wipes my belly up and with a little prompting trots off to dispose of the gooey tissue.

The thing that amazes me is how she goes, unhesitatingly, through this routine with the practiced hand of a seasoned obstetrician. I started to think this was fairly normal until Rocket Man’s godmother saw her do it and set me straight with, “_____, I’ve never seen a 2-year-old work a Doppler before.” Once again. Awe.