40 Minutes in the Waiting Room of a Doctor
The waiting rooms were not designed for children or frazzled parents. The waiting rooms are a fluorescent-lit space of quiet expectation, with wooden toys that slide along metal tracks. You know, as a parent, that a doctor’s visit is not just about the doctor. It’s all about how to survive the waiting room.
Recently, I faced what could only be described as a stress test for parents – a 40-minute wait in a GP’s waiting room with two of my children aged four (“Little”), and seven (“Big”). I thought I was prepared. I was not.
0 Minutes – Immediate Remorse
As we walked in, I was able to sense my mistake. It was packed. There were rows of tightly packed chairs, adults looking disgruntled as they flipped through magazines from months ago, and kids fighting over a wooden bead puzzle. I hadn’t packed snacks. Or games. Or games. Already, I had lost the battle before it even began.
Little ran away as soon as he spotted the toy. Big stayed close to me and narrated his entire day while we were looking for seats. So far, everything seems manageable. I clung to optimism as if it were my only lifeline.
Two Minutes: How far Are We?
Little began to play peacefully with the other children. Big continued to chatter away, about his day, his class, and what he was hoping for dinner. I smiled and nodded while half-listening to the conversation. So far, so good.
Three Minutes of Shove Heard Around the Room
Little was pushed. Little was pushed, not a lot, but enough to make his face crumple with confusion. He stared at me with wide-eyed eyes, silently asking, “Am I permitted to retaliate?”. I replied, “Play nicely,” while offering a forced smile towards the mother of the other child, who ignored me and the entire situation.
Little led to the second identical wooden toy on the opposite side of the room. Crisis avoided. Briefly.
Five Minutes to Retaliation
The same child followed Little and shoved him again. Little shouted, “No, Boy!”. This is a good example of communication. Unfortunately, the child who shoved didn’t get the hint. Little pushed back this time. The other child begins to cry.
His mum looked up and gave a death stare. I returned it with my best “where-were-you-five-minutes-ago” expression. Parenting at its best.
The Meanie Pegs Incident in 7 Minutes
My son, in full Charlie and Lola accent, declared, as the toy thief marched out of Little’s reach and away from the bead-maze, “That boy’s a big meanie!”
Big collapsed into a silent laugh. Other adults laughed. Half-laughing, half-sinking into my seat. Seven minutes had passed. How could I possibly make it to forty minutes?
Fidgeting Farm Animals and 10 Minutes
Little began to get twitchy. Big asked if we had “almost finished.” I took out a picture book, and we read through it in just two minutes. Little asked me to sing, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
Yes. Sing. Sing.
I sang quietly “Old MacDonald”, trying to ignore the woman who was smirking sympathetically in my direction. As we moved from pigs, to cows, to exotic additions such as lions and Kangaroos, I could see that people were listening. A few even smiled. Elephant trumpet was a… choice.
15 Minutes: Fights, Books, and Whispering
Three minutes of singing felt like ten. Big began whining. I gave him his book from the library and prayed that it would distract him. Of course, Little wanted the book of his older brother. Why would he not?
He yanked the book and shouted, Minee!” Behind me, a pensioner muttered a word that sounded suspiciously similar to a “tsk.”
The first child, yes, it was he again, began to do laps in the waiting room. Little, who never misses a chance to create chaos, began to follow. I knelt to his level and explained gently: “We don’t run here. Some people are sick. We don’t wish to bump into anyone.” Miraculously, he nodded and sat beside me. Tiny win.
17 Minutes: Snacks and Bribes
Big’s stomach groaned loudly. He told me, several times, how unfair it was to be “starving” in public. After dinner, I promised him an ice-cream sandwich if he would just keep it together. A bribe. A blatant, unapologetic bribe.
Scream Wars in 19 Minutes
Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, the other child stood in the center of the room and screamed. Long. Loud. Repeated. It was in my tooth.
Little laughed. Then Little joined in. I suddenly managed a screaming duo.
“Little no”, I replied firmly. “We don’t scream indoors.”
He laughed louder and let out a scream to make me feel better.
I tried distraction, stern voice, a n direct eye contact. The other mum? She’s still reading her book. Oblivious. I judged her. I knew I shouldn’t have, but I did. I grabbed Little by the hand and announced a bathroom break.
22 Minutes – The Temporary Escape
It was a record. We went to the bathroom and came back in five minutes. I hoped the other child was gone. He was not. He had escalated his behavior to the point of squirting water from his bottle on the carpet.
Big looked at me with wide-eyed eyes and whispered, “Why is this allowed?”
Excellent question, my son.
In desperation, I dug into my bag and found a Lego mini-figure and a Hot Wheels car that was rusted. Also, Postman Pat. The perfect trio for last-minute entertainment. The children were delighted. The kids were thrilled for about five minutes.
24 Minutes: Roman Baths, Life, and the Universe
Big switched into “Philosopher mode” and started asking me questions like a one-boy panel on Question & Answer. “Do cats have ears?” “Why can we not go to space?” Why is the boy throwing water, but no one seems to care? “Why are doctors so slow?”
The toy car’s “vroom, vroom” sounds were hushed as I replied.
The Car Battle in 27 Minutes
The other boy was interested in our car. He grabbed it. Little pulled it back. Chaos ensued. The chaos ensued.
The woman smiling across the room leaned forward to ask Little, “Wow!” Is that your vehicle?
He was beaming. She listened. The car was in good condition. I almost hugged the girl.
Sweet Relief in 30 Minutes
Finally, the name of the second boy was announced. They left like a survivor watching the rescue boat. The room shook with relief.
32 Minutes of Flatulence and Bottom Wiggles
Little was now bored. He began to dance. He did a dance that included excessive bottom-wiggling. Big was amused by this and promptly farted loudly. He then said with impeccable manners, “Oops!” Please excuse me.”
I heard more muffled laughter in the room. I pretended not to hear it.
Little, sensing the moment, broke out in song. It wasn’t regular singing, but a shouty, rapid-fire song that was a mixture between a sugar rush and a jungle chant.
I reached for my emergency device, my phone.
The 34-Minute Screentime Salvation
I pulled up Blaze & the Monster Machines on my phone and handed it over. Little was silent. Engrossed. I was engrossed. I didn’t care. The only thing that mattered was screen time.
37 Minutes of Bargaining and Bribery
The dinner hour was long past. Everyone was hungry. Everyone was restless. I offered pizza. I offered pizza.
I thought about going up to the desk and asking how long it would be. The receptionist seemed to have been asked this question 47 times before. I didn’t move.
39 Minutes of Unexpected Kindness
A woman was called in. She leaned down as she passed and told my boys, “You have been so well-behaved.”
I blinked. Smiled. She almost cried. She didn’t know how much those words meant to her.
40 Minutes – Sweet, Sweet Freedom
Then, “Mummy, this is us.”
I grabbed my nappy bag, car, Lego figure, and the remaining tatters of my dignity. We were called. My head pounded. I felt like I was 17 years older. We had done it.
Conclusion
The waiting room at the doctor’s is like a coliseum of emotions for parents. You have to fight impatience and judgment, loud sounds, guilt, boredom, siblings fighting, and your sanity. You somehow manage to get through.
This 40-minute period was more difficult than childbirth. And childbirth is at least a cake and flowers. It ended with a pizza that was half eaten, and someone crying about bedtime.
It’s just part of the experience, right?
Next time, I’ll pack snacks. Noise-cancelling headphones.
