It’s Friday morning. I should still be in my pajamas.
Instead, I’m at the pediatrician’s office for a follow-up for the boy.
The boy and I are cramped in this tiny room and we are glaring at each other.
We could be sleeping in, eating a glorious breakfast somewhere, giggling as we miss school. But no, we are here, surrounded by a bunch of sick kids and now I think I have: chicken pox, the flu, to get my appendix out STAT.
There’s a baby crying. Ugh. No, it’s many babies, too many babies crying and I’m about to start crying myself.
We have been waiting here too long and this feels like my punishment for some past transgression that happened in college.
I open the door to the room because my claustrophobia has kicked into high gear. It’s too hot in here and my face is sweaty.
Is this what a hot flash feels like?
As I walk to the front desk, I’m confronted by a young boy in the hallway. I try to get by him, but he is crying and flailing his arms and I see no parents in sight. I try to calm him down and tell him it’s all right.
He smiles up at me and I’m smiling back down at him, patting myself on the back for a job well done and then. . . he throws up everywhere. It is like Exorcist and Parenthood projectile vomiting of epic proportions.
I am covered in whatever the kid ate for breakfast. Eggs? Seriously?
I feel myself getting sick.
The kid’s mom comes out of the bathroom and is horrified and shoots me a shitty look as she takes the kid into the bathroom to clean him up.
I want to yell back at her: You’re the one who fed your kids eggs, lady!
I’m left standing there alone, dripping in regurgitated eggs.
The boy pops his head out of the room: What did you do?
Thankfully, the office has these ugly scrubs/shorts for me to change into. I’m pretty sure they keep these around for shaming people.
Were you shamed today or have you seen anything uglier than these mother fucking shorts?