You haven’t lived until you have hauled three small children to the Urologist’s office to drop off a “specimen” in a brown paper bag.
I’m just saying.
There are many, many ironic and hilarious pieces to this story, but I think my favorite is what happened after I dropped off the brown paper bag. I wheeled the double stroller past Maverick, who was holding open the door that led into the waiting room full of people – mostly men. Old men, young men, men who looked angry, and men who looked relieved. Maybe they were there to get vasectomies, maybe they were there to fix a problem with the pipes … who knows.
What I do know is that the baby got hungry at that precise moment and started to scream, which was partially drowned out by her two older brothers who were holding out their arms yelling “I’M A ZOMBIE! I’M A ZOMBIE!” (Why. Seriously.) while laughing hysterically. I decided it would be better to feed her in the waiting room instead of in the hot car, despite the circumstances, and that is how everyone present ended up being subjected to 15 solid minutes of my children at their absolute worst.
I could not help but to notice the stares from everyone within earshot. And they weren’t the “Oh, look at the cute children!” kind. They were the “Shut those freaking kids up!” kind. And so, in an effort to quell my embarrassment over the entire ordeal, I told myself we were really doing all of the people there who were considering vasectomies a favor. I may as well have been wearing a big sign that read: