Size Matters (but not how you think)

When you find yourself thinking, "My kid dumped almost his entire sippy cup of milk on his face, head, back and our couch this morning - he's got to be thirsty at this point.  There's no way he'd do the same thing again this afternoon.  I can stand in the kitchen for five minutes to have a snack."

You are wrong.  Very fucking wrong.  Not only that, but he'll decide to dump the milk where you sit this time, and it will all happen on the day you finally, finally get the steroid injections in your knees.

Now that experience was a big party all by itself.  You get up an hour and a half early, and arrive on time for your appointment.  The doctor is over an hour late - without explanation, or apology.  When she does finally see you, she pulls out a needle the size of a god damned coffee straw.  Right.  She puts that needle in each knee three times: two on the top, one on the inside, under the kneecap.  Actually, it was twice in the right kneecap, because she didn't quite hit it right the first time. 

She tells you that you have a high tolerance for pain, probably because you didn't scream curse words at her.  Yet.  Then, like some kind of over-caffeinated cheerleader, she starts asking you how you feel.  How does it feel when you stand?  How does it feel when you sit?  Does it feel any better?  How does it feel when you move your leg?  How does it feel when you walk?  How about now? 

How about you just chill the french toast out, lady - you didn't sprinkle me with fairy dust, or wave a magic wand ... you just jabbed my knees several times with a needle the size of terrifying.  That didn't feel too great, and I'm still kinda sore from that - how am I supposed to tell the difference between the old pain and the new pain?  If I could get rid of headaches by punching you in the face, would you want me peeping in your ear immediately, "how ya feelin'!? feelin' better yet?!"

At this point, you realize you've been dicking around the doctor's office so long that you've got just enough time to get home so your husband can make it to work, but as you're walking out the doctor says - with no further explanation, "Take a seat out there."  At first you think she's just testing your ability to sit again, but when she walks away, you think, "fuck?" 

You question the receptionist, who informs you that they expect you to sit there for an additional 15 minutes, just to make sure you don't pass out.  This is the first you've heard of this waiting period.  You try to explain that you're already late because you didn't get in until an hour past your appointment, but no one really cares that your husband's job is looking for any excuse to fire people before they have to give them the severance package in a few months.  So you slump grudgingly into a chair, glaring at their stupid magazines, making a list of everything you hate, including pointless rule following, until the receptionist takes mercy on you and lets you go early.

Now you're sitting on a towel, so your butt doesn't get soaked with milk, your knees kinda hurt in a different way, and the day isn't even half over.  The only thing left to do is sigh, wait for the steroid migraines to start, and hope your husband doesn't have to work tomorrow.