As most of you readers with babies are familiar, the first step to every prenatal appointment is a little test of skill in which you have to provide a urine sample. At your first visit, it is not a complicated task. But by the time you're hauling around eight pounds of placenta, fifteen pounds of "maternal fat stores", and five pounds of precious miracle, trying to reach down there with the little cup, let alone aim a notoriously unreliable urine stream into that cup, is a task on par with the midair refueling of a Joint Strike Fighter.
And so it was today when I showed up to leave my offering at the altar of protein and glucose screening. I carefully spelled out my last name and first initial on the side of the cup, sat down, got the cup as in place as it could possibly be given my limited range of motion and inability to see around very, very large, round corners, and prepared to whiz all over my hand, my weekly contribution to "the humiliating things we do for our children."
After I'd gotten what seemed to be an adequate amount of fluid in the cup, and maybe a little more since Ryan was home this morning and I actually got to finish my entire cup of coffee, I was preparing to put the lid on when it started dripping. All the hell over the place. Figuring I had just gotten a little on the sides, as is wont to happen, I held it for a moment, waiting for the dripping to subside until I could put the top on and wipe everything up with toilet paper.
Except the dripping didn't stop. Quantities of urine which surely violated the law of conservation of mass were dribbling all over the floor in front of the toilet.
It didn't stop because it was coming from a GIANT CRACK IN THE BOTTOM OF THE CUP.
Naturally my reaction to finding myself holding a leaking cup of my own urine was to fling the whole thing into the nearby trash can and in the process slosh pee far and wide all over the tiny bathroom AND MY SHIRT.
This did not phase me as much as it should have.
Feeling more inconvenienced than grossed out, I sighed, got another cup, CHECKED IT CAREFULLY FOR INTEGRITY, wrote my name AGAIN, got as much of a sample as I could, put it in the little cabinet, mopped up as best I could with toilet paper and paper towels, washed the everloving heck out of my hands with the yellow institutional hand soap, zipped my coat up over the wet spots on my shirt, and headed back out to the waiting room to mentally mock all the advice in the new baby magazines.
Five weeks till the due date. I'm hoping for three.