Kids. Whaddya gonna do?
The waiting room discussion continues over at Chez Miscarriage today. (And if you don't think I am tormented by the furious shade of my high school French teacher every time I commit the grammatical sin of inflicting an extraneous preposition on "chez..." you are very much mistaken.)
Although I'm not normally fazed by the presence of children in the waiting room at the infertility clinic, something unusual happened today as I sat and waited, nervous as...well, something really nervous. Nervous as a cat? No, even assuming the rocking chairs. Nervous as a bride on her wedding night? Chyeah. Nervous as a jacked-up woman in an infertility clinic waiting room who expects her cycle to get cancelled and finds herself surrounded by women who have somehow managed to procreate?
Yeah. That'll do.
Anyway, this morning I was minding my own business in the waiting room when I suddenly found myself at a day care center. Three (3) mothers with children at the crawling age had taken their kids out of their strollers right at my feet and set them down on the floor to play with each other.
Indulgent voices, delighted baby laughter, "Jordan, be gentle!" "Madison, I'm coming after you!" (This last in a kids-whadddya-gonna-do tone from a man chasing a toddler across the room in a showy slow-motion jog.) Big smiles from the clinic employee who stopped to look in on the totfest jamboree.
They were awfully cute, those crawling babies at my feet, I'll give you that. But the little bastards tried to root around in my purse, and that I cannot forgive.
Look, I don't glare at mothers with children in the waiting room (at least not on a good day). I don't resent their presence. But isn't it asking an awful lot that I also participate in a playdate? Why should that ever happen?