“I’m Dr. Love,” says Dr. Love. But he says it with panache, pronouncing his name deep and soulful like Barry White. Dr. Love is sitting in for our regular perinatologist who is out having foot surgery. She’s a small, spunky white lady. He’s a large, spunky black man. They are the Kelly Ripa and Michael Strahan of the Maternal-Fetal Medicine department.
Dr. Love is talker, and as he moves the ultrasound across my stomach, he says things like “You’re built like a box of grits,” and “Your cervix look good, girl.”
Dr. Love has got twin boys of his own, and after warning me about the many skid marks in my future, he recommends we get a night nurse. I tell him we’re saving up for an au pair, but I’m going to make sure she’s unattractive since she’ll be alone with Matt during the day.
“I can’t have a Swedish au pair with a bikini body hanging around when I’m going to be all stretched out, dragging my skin flaps behind me,” I explain. He laughs. “You’re funny.”
Dr. Love and I have a good time bantering back and forth. He urges me to write about our experience with triplets. As I’m leaving, he shouts down the hall, “You go, Grits Bredimus!” Grits Bredimus and her good-looking cervix wave back at Dr. Love.
Hmm, writing about our triplet experience. Now there’s an idea.