We went to K’s gastroenterologist appointment today. It was at Goryeb Children’s Hospital.
Do you know where you park at Goryeb Children’s Hospital?
I know, because on my fifth or sixth time around Morristown Hospital, I found a security lady and asked.

First, you have to take a left out the exit of Goryeb Children’s Hospital. Then you drive fifteen miles, take another left into a parking lot, and fight to the death with seventeen other mothers over the three appropriated Goryeb Children’s Hospital parking spots.
Then, if you win, you drag your wailing toddler on foot the fifteen miles back to Goryeb Children’s Hospital.

When we finally got inside, the first thing I noticed was it bears a striking resemblance to Philadelphia Children’s Hospital. Everything’s fun, bright colors, murals on the wall and what not. It’s the fucking MoMa of hospitals. I ask the guy at the comically large desk (between K’s sobs) where the Enterology suite might be, perhaps on the Mickey Mouse floor?

Floor two, elevator behind comically large desk.

I go. Directly behind this desk is what looks like an elevator with a pad next to it. I hit two.
I don’t know how long I stood there, trying to get K to calm down before the guy behind the comically large desk says:

“Ma’am, the elevators are to your left, down that short hall”. Add a silent “asshole” here. I think I said something lame like “Oh you have normal elevators here”. Easy mistake. I’m sure everyone mistakes a fucking mural for the elevator”.

When I finally managed to drag myself, the animal crackers, my comically large Mom purse, K, who is squirming and screaming in my arms, and various other items over to the real elevator, up to the second floor, and sat down at the second registration desk, I was less than excited when Cindy-Loo Hoo handed me a ten thousand page packet to be filled out right the fuck now.

K promptly pulled a dead fish and bonked her head on the Whoville style registration table.
Now we have a scene.
K started bawling her great fake bawls. The management came out to encourage me to take her to the emergency room. I tried to tell them that she was screaming her great fake screams, that there’s really nothing wrong with her and that she hardly even touched the desk. Management disperses, but not without eyebrows raised, and silent “what an asshole” glances given between staff members.

Stickers are given. I am asked if she can have a lollipop. I say no. I get another look. It whispers “asshole”. Finally, I’m left to work on my assignment. Luckily there’s a fish tank in the middle of their postmodern “open design” waiting area. I let K go see the fish.

Instead of going to see the fish, she feints left at the last moment and bolts to the marble stairs. I run after her, but there’s a lady there who catches her. She gives K back to me (panting and sweating) and says “wouldn’t want her falling down those stairs, now” add another silent “asshole” to the end of that.

By the time the doctor came in, K was stripped down to her diaper, running in circles around the room Lord of the Flies style, alternately screaming and eating animal crackers. I was sitting in the fifties style chaise lounge doing my homework and hoping my kid didn’t step on a hypodermic needle. I was sweating profusely, as is common in hot rooms after chasing my kid around for half an hour.
The doctor gave us more paperwork and two scripts, which I put in my pocket.
I was more than happy to drag my screaming toddler out of that place.
When we got to the car, I sat down in the seat, and out of my pocket go the scripts.
Out go the scripts, right into the space between the seat and the center island, where no human hand will ever fit.

I’m an asshole.

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