A REAL BABE

My over fifty status allows me some privilege, though not much. I qualify for an honourary PhD in mothering; that goes without saying. I don't know, do I wear a cap and gown when I receive my doctorate? It is awarded to those who remain standing when the curtain falls on motherhood. The grand-poo-bah of scroll handling will shake my hand and remind me that I need not remember to tell anyone to hang up her jacket or to brush her teeth or never again worry if my progeny have made their beds this morning. It's all out of my hands.

I should also get some kind of recognition of the decathlon of relationships I've subjected myself to. I realize I don't qualify for a gold medal, but I will most definitely receive a participation badge.

But the particular privilege I am thinking of today falls into the realm of medical investigation; peeking, if you will, into my privates, my inner workings. First of all, I'm over fifty so I get an all expense paid trip to the mammogram machine, kindly referred to as if age hasn't created a sag we can squeeze out any live tissue that has survived. And by the way, try not to move while we do it. I feel so special, part of that inner group, like insider trading, those special individuals who are invited to the party on the other side of that door and no, you don't need to check in at registration. You just come right on back. So lucky.

Along with mammograms are the happy ultrasounds. Painless. They look at my gallbladder, liver, kidneys, pancreas. Turns out, I have a textbook pancreas. It's lovely and healthy. I beamed with pride when the technician told me that, while she paused and stared with admiration into her computer screen. I think I saw her hand go to her chest in awe. I dropped my eyes. I am, if nothing else, humble.

Later, I boasted of my pancreatic prowess to my friend. I may have been a bit smug but my pride is indeed well earned and certainly noteable.

"That's lovely," Allison said. She seemed sincere. "But I had a colonoscopy last fall. The doctor took my hand in his. You have a very clean bowel, Mrs. Montgomery, he said. I blushed," Allison confessed. "My eyelashes may have fluttered."

A clean bowel? Does that trump my textbook pancreas? Is that like a royal flush (pardon the pun) over a straight?

I have a colonscopy coming up. That's the next thing on the list of peeking. I can hardly wait. I could have a very clean bowel, too, if I stop eating right now. It's only three weeks away. I could dazzle the O.R. staff. "Wow," they might exclaim, with their hands at their throats in disbelief. "You could shoot a canon off in there. Hey, Bill!" they'd shout to the custodian mopping out in the hall. "You gotta see this clean bowel!"

I may not be much to look at after thirty years of mothering. But by gum (one of my favourite expressions, never outdated) I have a textbook pancreas. Beauty may be skin deep, but there is no measure for inner beauty. On the inside, I'm a real babe!