Uneven distribution

We were in the McDonald's drive-through the other day, and Mr W was asking me questions about my conversation with his doc after his surgery last week.

He always has a bunch of questions once we get past his initial discomfort those first few post-op days.

I know I've mentioned before that his doc is rather good looking.   In a 'omg, I'm staring' kind of way.  Green eyes.  Slightly graying hair. <just a reminder>

This is something I am just not good with.  Good looking like that means I am suddenly that fifteen year old with a zit on her chin, unable to sound like I have a brain in my head.  Every insecurity bubbles to the surface.

Chubby teenager, meet James Bond.

Let's just say there's a lot of nodding and 'um-hmm' going on when he's around.   

Anyway, this time out was easier.  I have decided he is just another guy.  Even tall, athletic types like that put their pants on one leg at a time, so why get worked up about it?  Sure, there's a probably a buxom chick named Bambi handing him his pants, but let's not get into specifics.

I went over the conversation with Mr W again.  And I said, "You know, talking to him this time was alot easier.  You remember what happened last time, don't you?"  <giggle>

Mr W remembered, but I retold it anyway.

Last time, Audrey was with me.  And she was bouncing around, like little ones do, in the waiting area.  We were drawing, or coloring, if memory serves. 

Out strides the doc, resplendent in his scrubs. <wow>  I was sitting at this long table attached to the wall, and as he approached, Audrey hid underneath the table. 

He gets closer to me, and is giving me this explanation of what he did, and I'm thinking, Oh. My. God.  What is that smell?  Dr GQ has a flaw?  He smells after a long day of surgery?  Oh.  Man.  That is rank.  Who knew?

He is talking to me, and then taking a few steps back.  Closer, explain, step back...he keeps doing this.  And I notice he's got an almost amused look on his face.  ??

I'm trying to take it all in,  "stitched it up...stay off of it...must stay straight...for a month"  "A month?"  "..so he can recover best..."  I'm listening, and hoping to everything that is holy that Audrey doesn't electrocute herself under the table.  And I want him to finish, so I can go in to see Mr W.

He keeps doing that back and forth thing.  Well, maybe he knows he smells bad, I thought.

Finally, all his instructions and explanations are over, and he leaves.  Audrey comes out from under the table, and crawls into my lap for a hug.

Oh.  My.  God.  Wow, is that ever the worst smell....it lingers after he's gone... ?

It was her.  She had pooped while she was under the table.  I should've known.  How many kids do I have??

Oh. My. God.

I am mortified, with the realization he thinks that it was  me that smelled bad.  Oy, I bet he thinks I let one rip before he came over to talk to me.  So that's where the amused expression came from.  Doh! 

I resist the urge to charge back towards the way he went, waving Audrey's not-so-fragrant backside around, "It wasn't me!  It wasn't me!!"  Sigh.  The damage is done.

I pick her up:  "Come on, Petunia.  Let's go get you changed." 

As we walked out to the van, I fostered a fervent hope that I'd be spotted changing her diaper in the parking lot, dispelling the notion that I was the one responsible for polluting the air.  Of course, the parking lot was empty.

I'd forgotten (surpressed) the whole incident until last week, when I was sitting in the same waiting area and felt a huge stab of deja vu when he came out to talk to me.   

At this point, the kids are laughing, because the only thing they love more than a bodily-function-gone-wrong story is one in which Mommy looks bad.  As this tale is a two-for-one, they were delighted.

Mr W is looking at me like I'm nuts.  That "how many times am I gonna hear this?" look on his face.  I'm a little irritated, that he doesn't see it, he's missing the big picture.

"You know, things like that never happen to you when you are with the kids.  You don't have stories about them, like I do, like the Home Depot tales, or the "excuse me, ma'am, do you have a mop?" stories,"  I tell him.  "You never have to worry that someone will disclose what color your underwear is, or start smacking you on the butt in the workroom while you are meeting the new male music teacher for the first time."

He couldn't argue with that.  And I saw him, smiling, in spite of himself.

"What 'Home Depot' story?"  Ben asked.

<I'll tell you all in the next entry>