i don't do wednesdays

Did you ever have one of those days when you realize just before bedtime Tuesday night that you possibly have an appointment with The Most Intimate Doctor on Wednesday but you've been planning all week on going to said appointment on Thursday? And then you have to make the decision as to whether it would be in your best interests to get up immediately and see if indeed the appointment is for Wednesday and if so scurry around trying to get the diaper bag packed and make sure that everything is set so that all you have to worry about is getting up and getting out of the house or if it would be better to just go to sleep and take care of things in the morning, knowing that the Little Guy will be waking you up no later than 6:30 which should leave you plenty of time to get it all done.

After deciding on the latter, you bolt upright from the deepest sleep realizing that, oh, shit, it's past 7 and the reliable Little Guy hasn't so much as whimpered which means that not only are you not going to have enough time to get all your shit together and get a shower (which The Most Intimate Doctor surely appreciates), but you're also now going to have to figure out how to squeeze a bottle, a two hour nap, a snack consisting of fruit and cereal, a diaper change, a change of outfits, and some quality Mommy-Little Guy time in to the time that you do have available. And don't forget to feed the cats. And get the chicken out to thaw for dinner. And find clean bibs to put in the diaper bag. And grab the mail to take to the post office on the way back. Not the big box -- no time to go to the post office first, and it's far too big to carry in the stroller all over the city. No matter that it really should have been mailed of weeks ago.

Finally, diaper bag packed, semi-showered (hair washed and Parts That Matter cared for), dressed, with clothed, fed, smiling baby in tow, you traipse down the stairs (with the mail!) to load baby, diaper bag and mail onto the stroller only to discover that the stroller is not waiting at the bottom of the stairs. It's folded up in the garage. Diaper bag and mail get dumped to the floor, baby hiked up on one hip and you drag/carry the stroller from the garage, up the stairs to the waiting diaper bag and mail. Realizing only after all has been loaded and buckled securely to the stroller that the most critical element, The Stroller Toys, are not loaded or buckled securely. Which leads to a few minor expletives (all of which Little Guy pays special attention to and even tries to form them with his own sweet baby mouth) followed by another trip to the garage (where the Toys aren't) and another trip back up the stairs (where the Toys have been the whole time. Right next to the spot where the mail was. Right there by the big box.).

Now, everything securely loaded and attached to the stroller, it is time to begin the 30 minute walk to the office of The Most Intimate Doctor. And the appointment is in 20 minutes. And it's so humid outside that you break into a sweat trying to get the key in the oh-so-little-hole to lock the damn door. You walk/run through the city streets, cleverly timing the lights so that you don't have to stop for oncoming traffic. Of course the sweet little old lady types out for their morning stroll didn't get the memo that you've had a bad morning (did I mention that there was only enough creamer for oh, say a thimbleful of coffee?) and that you're already running behind to an appointment that you'd rather not go to but if you have to you'd still prefer it was on Thursday rather than Wednesday because you had been planning it that way all week and would you please move out of my way, can't you see I'm in a hurry, thank you so much for poking your bony fingers into my stroller and waking my sleeping baby!

You get to the office of The Most Intimate Doctor only 5 minutes late, sign in, and find a place to sit down. Away from everyone else. Because you need the space to park the stroller. And the baby is still crying from the fright of being woken with a bony finger. And you've got sweat marks under your arms and can feel the sweat dripping down your back into the waistline of the jeans that you probably shouldn't have worn that morning given the temperature and humidity but you just didn't have time to shave or lather on the Tan-In-A-Can given the time constraints of your shower/dress period this morning and you decided that jeans would be preferable to running around the city with stark white, hairy legs.

So you sit down to wait for your turn with The Most Intimate Doctor (who, by the way, is on time. So since you are 5 minutes late, you have to wait for the perky blonde cheerleader/Harvard grad who was 5 minutes early for her appointment), carefully planning what you will need to do next in order to insure that Little Guy doesn't pick the exact moment when you are most vulnerable to decide he is hungry/tired/bored/reliving the bony-finger-in-the-stroller-moment. You play with him, check your watch, play with him, check your watch, read a story, check your watch, and at the precise moment that you have taken the bottle from the diaper bag, pulled the disposable formula powder bag open and begun to carefully pour the contents into the bottle of carefully measured water (all the while taking care to keep Little Guy from grabbing the powder packet or the bottle of water), you're name is called. So you finish pouring the formula into the bottle, turn to pack the various toys, miscellany into the stroller/diaper bag, and Little Guy decides to take a header off the chair. Under the watchful eyes of EVERYONE IN THE WAITING ROOM. And some nurses. And some doctors. Probably a few employees of Child Protective Services.

You make your way to the exam room, step on the scale and discover that not only has the fact that you rarely find time to sit down and eat an entire meal NOT resulted in the much hoped for silver lining of helping you shed those last few pounds of baby fat, but you've actually managed to gain weight. Somehow the 500 calories that you're able to cram in your mouth between running up and down the stairs with loads of laundry(read bibs), carrying Little Guy and his five favorite toys of the moment, and trying to figure out where the hell the phone is that WON'T QUIT RINGING has landed firmly on your hips in the form of excess weight. The nurse hands you the lovely gown and paper blanket, leaving you to figure out how to unload the now haphazardly loaded stroller so that you can deposit Little Guy and strip down to your blubbery, white, hairy (albeit clean!) glory. With some careful maneuvering (and the help of one of those oh-so-versatile stirrups!) you manage to accomplish what is expected of you. You even manage to tie the fabulous gown in front so that if you should inadvertently bend over as the door is accidentally opened by the 2 seven-year-olds who have decided to take their game of hide-and-go-seek to the next level, you won't have to figure out how to tell them enough without barreling right across the line into the Land Of Waaaayyy Too Much.

You remember that Little Guy still needs his bottle (transfixed by the blinking fluorescent light, he hasn't made a sound through all this), so you carefully sit down on the chair, making sure that your gown provides a barrier betwixt you and the not-so-sterile seat bottom, and offer him the sustenance which you have so carefully prepared for him. And he smacks it out of your hand. It rolls across the floor and under the stroller, encountering the solitary dust bunny that had scurried under there in the hopes of avoiding the cleaning crew yet another day. You wash the nipple off in the HOT water from the sink and resume the position, this time less successfully than before. Let's just say the upper thigh has now contacted the questionable surface. Little Guy senses the rise in blood pressure and wisely gives a few pulls on the slightly melted nipple.

You have just finished successfully putting him down in the stroller (asleep!) and pulled the now gaping gown back around you when The Most Intimate Doctor comes in. She does her thing, gives you the much coveted prescription for the Don't Have To Be Taken At The Same Time Every Day Or You Will Worry For The Next Three Weeks That You Might Be Pregnant Again Oh My God No Don't Let Me Be Pregnant Again Birth Control Pills, and leaves you to squeeze back into the now-shrunken-because-of-all-the-sweating jeans that you shouldn't have worn in the first place. Which serve as a not so gentle reminder that you are a million bazillion pounds heavier than you were at the height of your pregnancy.

Leaving the office, you head home, vowing to swear off all things made with flour and butter and sugar and salt and figure out how to subsist on the weeds that grow in the planter boxes on your neighbors front stoop. Your eyes are glazed over from the anxiety and stress of getting to the appointment almost on time and from the night of sleeplessness that you spent trying to convince yourself that Little Guy would wake you up in the morning and that you would get out of the house on time. You want nothing more than someone to put their arm around you, usher you into a nearby waiting limo (a Hummer, no less), and feed you jelly donuts and coffee covered in whipped cream while magically swooshing away your excess poundage and smoothing out the new mommy wrinkles that KEEP APPEARING on your forehead. And then they'll show you to a glass castle in the sky filled with the finest mattresses and down comforters and feather pillows and soft jammies and let you sleep forever and ever and ever and ever. Short of that happening, you are ready to sit down on the street corner and cry your eyes out, shouting "Woe is me!" to all the passersby.

And then, from around the corner a double stroller comes into view. With smiling, angelic, halo-wearing cherubs, sweetly sharing their snacks ("Would you like one of my organic, healthy, homemade snacks, Sister?" "Why, yes, I would, Brother. Thank you for asking. When we get home I am going to make a picture book filled with illustrations of your wonderful generosity." "And I, Sister, will compose sonnets of your sweetness.") pushed by the cutest, freshest, perkiest, healthiest, most-in-shape pregnant bitch woman you have ever seen. And you suddenly realize that you can't very well sit down and moan and complain about how hard you have it. Not realistically. And what really sucks is that you had the perfect blog post already composed in your head.

Did you ever have one of those days? Yeah, those days suck.



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4 comments:

Jacqueline said...

Is it bad that the tradegy of others can bring me such joy? Cuz I'll admit it - I laughed whilst reading this. I laughed A LOT. Sorry!

Are you ok, though? (yeah, I realize that that doesn't mean much now. But I had to check.) I love you!

Lenka said...

OK, so it's taken me till now to get to this, but Hey, I'm planning a trip to California!! HE HE!!

I'll have to agree with Jacueline, I had no choice but to burst forth with a few guffaws myself!! I think the funniest thing to me is that you and Jacque actually use the words Whilst and Betwixt, that just cracks me up!!

I'm writing you a prescription for a week in the fall or early winter on the Front Porch @ Camp Whattalottalovin'!! The counselor and I will take care of you and little guy. Just give me a call to make your reservations!!

Amy Jo said...

It's probably not as good, but here's a cyber hug for you. (((hug))) Hope you're feeling better by now!

Susan said...

Yup, all better! It's amazing how your perspective can change when you're hit upside the head with someone who's OBVIOUSLY dealing with more than you are and not complaining about it :). Thanks for the hugs and the concern... as for my sisters, well, karma's a bitch, so enjoy the laughter while it lasts... :P

P.S. Lenka, if you turn your head sideways, you'll be able to see that ":P" is a smiley face sticking it's tongue out. NO, DON'T TRY TO TURN THE COMPUTER... NOW LOOK WHAT YOU'VE DONE!!!