The Waiting Room

The Sidekick has been going to PT for the last four or five weeks.  When the Spouse and I decided that having the Sidekick get her most recent hip surgery three weeks after baby #5's due date was a totally awesome idea, I in no way foresaw me and my five children six-and-under taking up half a waiting room for forty-five minutes three times a week for three months a month-and-a-half after the surgery took place.  (Did I just write a math word problem?  I kind of get test anxiety reading back through that).

But that's where we're at.  And the waiting room is amused.

The waiting room notices us before we even get to the front door.  Something about seeing a lady carrying a baby in a car seat walking slowly next to the cutest little walker-pushing five-year-old in pink you ever saw, yelling after a wild-haired almost two-year-old gal dashing willy-nilly through the parking lot, while the younger of two boys fights off the older's attempts to follow his mother's instructions to hold his little brother's hand while they cross the same parking lot, gets the waiting room hustling to its feet to open doors for us.  We bustle in with all our noise and dump ourselves into the black faux-leather seats to an audience of advanced-aged smiles.  Things get quieter quickly though since the Sidekick goes off to do her exercises and the boys tether themselves onto the iPad. 

Still, that doggone Wee Wild One, she keeps the waiting room lively.

While I hold and feed the baby, while white-haired men and wrinkled and bent women wait for their turn for therapy, she cavorts.  She calls out that she's got to pee.  She dances in circles to the music playing on the radio in the room until she falls down.  She squeals in her baby brother's face.  She slams her body into his in an exuberant hug.  She opens the door to the training room and yells her sister's name.  She pushes into and out of my lap.  She shows me how she can jump with a wild laugh.  She moves chairs.  She plays with the dials on the radio.  She rifles through magazines on the table.  She gallops and goes and she goes and gallops.

I wouldn't blame the waiting room if it lost its patience.  I wouldn't blame it at all if it rolled its eyes or asked me to wait in my car.  But instead it is endlessly kind.

Last week it insisted on holding my baby while I took the Wee Wild One to the potty after she yelled out, "Pee!  Potty!" and grabbed at her diaper with both hands...twice.  It quietly turned every page of a Sports Illustrated magazine the Wee Wild One brought it, pointing to pictures and murmuring "basketball," and "football," and "soccer" as it went.  It jumped and laughed with her today when she was on a particular high.  It even went so far as to leave me speechless and relieved by saying, "You make being a Mom look easy," on a day when I was a frenzied mess but just didn't feel like looking like a frenzied mess.

It's a mighty fine waiting room.