It's a Sign

My pen and I are on vacation at the Lake of the Ozarks right now, so I'm giving you a shorty I wrote in January, a little over a month after Addison was born.

The entrance to the wing in which my psychiatrist works is marked by a sign that reads, "Anxiety and Traumatic Stress Program," which is enough to make anybody anxious as they walk through the door.

The bottom of the sign announces this wing also hosts "Obesity Trials," which is particularly unfortunate because my doctor is the director of the Maternal Wellness Program at Duke and sees a lot of pregnant women.

Today I got off the elevator on the wrong floor and right in front of my face was a sign telling me Dr. Looney could be found this way -->. Further investigation revealed Dr. Looney actually is a psychiatrist.

As all signs point to me being anxious, fat, and crazy, I think I'll go buy a dozen doughnuts and look over my shoulder while I eat them, all the while wondering if the man in the brown coat is really reading the paper or just waiting for the right time to steal my baby or, worse yet, my doughnuts.


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