I had a doctor’s appointment today. And I’m going to share it with you.
Not five minutes into our waiting room pit stop (of at least 30 minutes), the mother load of spit up came hurling my way. Baby A, unphased, was clean as a whistle. My shirt, on the other hand, was saturated. No biggy. I’m used to this kind of thing. Not to mention, I’m holding the excuse for my crazy appearance on my hip. A quick trip to the bathroom, and it’s like it never happened. Good as new…
Then he shits his britches. I probably shouldn’t be so vulgar. Or hickish. But I like the word britches, and shit is what he did. And I’m thinking to myself…
Self, any minute now, that nurse is going to come walking through that door, you’ll get back there, have a quick 1-2, and you’ll be out of here. You can change him in the car. Public diaper changing stations are gross anyway…
I was wrong. About when the nurse would come, about the quick 1-2 part, and I certainly underestimated the intensity of his odor.
Finally, my male nurse calls us back. Pleasantries are exchanged. Nothing breaks the ice like a baby that’s beginning to shriek out of sheer boredom and shit-stained britches. And by this point I’ve worked up some perspiration.
Self, this is no biggy. You’re always hot. We’ll be out of here soon. I mean we’re practically done.
Wrong again. ANOTHER 30 minutes of shrieking-baby-and-sweating-mom-madness-in-a-tiny-room later, and in waltzes Dr. I’m Way Smarter Than My Patients. ^_- (That’s a raised eyebrow, btw, for anyone out of the emoticon loop.)
If you’re so smart, why didn’t you talk about triglycerides at all? It is after all part of my overall cholesterol score.
… A thought I had post-appointment, of course, because it was difficult to think with Dr. IWSTMP and Baby A both going a mile a minute, each trying to see who could be louder.
What’s that? Oh, you want to do a breast exam on me? I mean my gyno does one yearly, but ok. Sure, I can hold my 20 pound baby with one arm while I’m laying on my back and he’s screaming at you for making us wait so damn long. Switch sides? Oh right, let me just fling him to the other side right quick…
(I’m not even going to try to MS Paint that image for you.)
By now, I’m no longer perspiring. I’m sweating. Thank goodness it’s not the kind that beads up and sits there and makes you look pathetic. It’s just the kind that makes you feel like you just got out of the shower during a physical exam in which you’re being fully exposed in all your sweating glory.
And after all that, Dr. IWSTMP wants to talk at me some more!
When do I get to ask the questions, lady? Do you think just because my son is doing all the talk-yelling that I don’t have anything to say?
Finally, we wrapped it up, she apologizes for the delay, and she’s out. And I’m one-handed changing, the other holding Sesame Street Bruno Mars music up for Baby A who’s all but lost it by this point.
I’m dressed, I’ve got my papers, my baby, and his entertainment and we FINALLY get to roll out. To the truck (SUV equals truck in my world). So I can change his shitty britches in the open air, let the breeze cool off my sweat, and get away from the doctor.
Just another manic Monday…