Page 10 of Own the Eights Maybe Baby
Panic welled in Georgie’s eyes.
“I’ll sit here,” he offered, gesturing to the farthest chair from the group of men. “In the adults-only section.”
Adults-only?
What was wrong with him?
The secretary shook her head. “No, sir, the nurse will be calling for you to come to join your wife from that side of the practice.”
A hallway ran past the check-in desk, connecting two sides of the office with the waiting room situated in the center. He glanced at the women, sitting quietly, checking their phones—far, far away from the mayhem on the other side. He wanted this—the adult section or whatever you wanted to call it. He scanned the dad zone to find a half-naked toddler twirling in a sea of toys.
“What happens on the quiet side of the office?” he asked.
“Our non-pregnancy related appointments,” the receptionist answered.
He glanced at the carnival gone off the rails section of the waiting room.
“We’re not one hundred percent sure Georgie’s pregnant. That’s why we’re here. We’re very close to sure, but that should be enough to get me into the quiet zone, at least for today, don’t you think?”
The receptionist’s placating expression was back. “Here’s the receptacle for your urine sample, dear,” she said, ignoring his plea and handing Georgie a plastic cup.
His wife stared down at it, her name and date of birth printed along the side. This was it—the moment of truth.
She squeaked a nervous laugh. “Well, we conquered shit shovels. What’s a little pee in a cup?”
Before he could reply, the maddening hum of the office went dead quiet. Not even a baby farted.
Georgie’s eyes went wide, and her cheeks grew crimson. “I dropped thes-word in front of a bunch of children, didn’t I?”
The entire waiting room stared at them. Even the receptionist sat motionless, her hand pressed to her chest.
He needed to handle this—and fast.
“My wife didn’t say a bad word. She saidship shovel. Ship with ap. You know, the shovel you’d use when you need one on a ship. Ship with ap—definitely, not at.”
Had crickets not been smart enough to avoid this place, they’d be chirping.
“I’m going to go pee in the cup and have my blood drawn,” Georgie said, going from beet-red to dishwater gray as the noise returned to the level of heavy metal concert meetsSesame Street.
He pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. “You should do great with the pee part. You’ve had plenty of practice this morning.”
She frowned up at him. “Jordan, why don’t you sit down. I’m sure they’ll call you back when they get me into an examination room.”
Sit down and shut up, asshat!
He knew that’s what his wife wanted to say—or would have said—if she weren’t freaking out about the possibility of gestating a human on top of making sure she didn’t drop another bad word in front of the baby brigade.
What was wrong with him?
Actually, he could answer that.
This place!
On TV, couples went into a tastefully decorated doctor’s office where pregnancy advice was dispensed over a mahogany desk without a chorus of wailing children or crashing toy cars.
Then, the penny dropped.
He was pregnancy book smart.
