Okay, now I feel bad. Eating and drinking have become fairly dicey activities, as there is a very real chance - every damn time - that I will get some of whatever I am attempting to consume on you. It doesn't even need to be food. Today's grand total of "stuff on my Batman" includes powdered make-up, some coffee, pen ink, and something dusty and dark that might have been white board marker. This is apparently why women typically wear either heavily patterned or very loose, flowey clothes while pregnant; one way or another, such things conceal the inevitable drips, dribbles, and smears.
As I sat in Dr. Fuckhead's waiting room this afternoon, I realized that the scarf I'd been wearing to hide the coffee stains was doing nothing to cover the smudge of pen ink dead-center on the front of my belly. Classy, no? All the other women in the waiting room were wearing heavy coats (it's finally gotten COLD, despite an ongoing lack of snow), so I couldn't see if they were in any state of slovenliness on par with mine, but I am going to reassure myself and say that they were surely only keeping their coats on because they were more covered with junk than I was. That's got to be it.
The Carnival was a little more populated this week than it has been since Thanksgiving; a whole six different family or individual units were already waiting, and a seventh walked in moments after I sat down. Three families had small children with them already, and in the grand tradition of families in Dr. Fuckhead's waiting room, two of those families were flagrantly and conspicuously being irresponsible about their children. One boy, who couldn't have been much older than a year, was climbing on every piece of furniture not already occupied by a human being; his giggles and chuffing were pretty adorable, but it was impossible to ignore the fact that he was continually splashing large quantities of water out of a paper cup that his parents kept allowing him to refill from the water bubbler...or rather, they were just ignoring him, so it kept happening. Many chairs, and most of the floor, were soaked. Another boy, somewhere around age three, was sprinting around in circles complaining that he needed to go to the bathroom. His parents were arguing over who was going to take him (he lost) for minutes...and minutes...to a point when I was deeply concerned that I was going to be witness to his bodily emissions.
My schmootziness, however, paled in comparison to that of the woman who entered the waiting room just before I was called. She looked like she had been rolling around on the floor of a pick-up truck used most often to transport large quantities of cat hair, cigarette butts, and the food that falls out of babies' mouths. I don't think pregnancy could be entirely to blame for her...er...state...of being...but after hearing her grunt something at the receptionist about needing to get called in quickly because "this kid is gonna make me piss again real soon if I don't get in there fast," I felt substantially better about my few drippy stains.
I'm left resigning myself to the fact that I will just have stuff on me for the next few weeks, but at least it's all accidental and generally not gross. A particularly hilarious problem that I'm growing accustomed to is my inability to wash my hands (or dishes, or anything else for that matter) without splashing water all over you. Batman, you are undoubtedly the cleanest - but sometimes messiest - unborn child on the planet.
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