Symptoms

The pediatrician’s office feels familiar and pastel, a place meant to calm the parent just as much as the child. A nurse calls your son’s name. On your way to a back room, she tells you that the pediatrician who normally sees your son is out, and that someone named Dr. Scott will see the baby today. Is this okay?

1. Why wouldn’t it be? A doctor’s a doctor. Go to answer #4.
2. Hmm. Is this a trick question? Feels suspicious. You tell the nurse you’d rather wait for the doctor who knows your baby’s medical history best, even though your baby’s breathing has gotten worse. Go to #3.

Ha! Not only are you wrong, but you are also putting your baby’s life in grave danger! Everybody is judging you—silently, vehemently, constantly. The end. Congratulations, you monster!

You and your baby wait and wait. Where is Dr. Scott? Is Dr. Scott a man, and is “Scott” his first name, or his last? The door finally swings open, and in walks Dr. Scott. You hate that you immediately assumed he was a man, but you were right, weren’t you? He’s young-looking—thirty-two? thirty-three?—with a chest as broad as a gurney and hair the color of the sun at golden hour. He sweeps his broad palm over your baby’s head, looks you right in the eye, and asks, “How’s our baby boy?” You find him:

1. So attractive that the room seems to stretch and tighten like an umbilical cord pulled taut. It feels dangerous to be in here with Dr. Scott, with the door closed like this. Too dangerous. It’s only been five seconds and already your heart is twisting in confused somersaults. You grab the baby in one arm, your purse in the other, and make a break for it. Go to #5.
2. So attractive that you almost drop your baby, but you stay in the room. You stay. Go to #6.

What are you, a boy-obsessed college freshman again? Would you rather go back to question #1 and start all over? Grow up! Get a hold of yourself. Go to #3.

A sea of masculine energy tsunamis into the room with Dr. Scott and . . . my god, you’re just trying to stay afloat. Dr. Scott says you can keep your son on your lap as he examines him. He’s got his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and you never realized forearms could be so hot. Your baby watches Dr. Scott with wide eyes, following every movement of his hands and visibly calmed by his baritone reassurance. It’s almost like you’re a happy little family: you, your son, and brawny Dr. Scott. What do you do?

1. You’ve officially lost it. Stop imagining Dr. Scott as the father of your future children. Stop it! You really should schedule a different appointment for a different day. And you’re not a single parent—bring your husband with you next time, slut! Go to #3.
2. You’re here prioritizing your child’s health. You did the right thing, coming to the doctor’s today. You didn’t ask for Dr. Scott, nor did you ask for him to be this attractive. You might consider pumping the brakes on the fantasies a bit, but you’re a brand-new mom who can never catch a break. Soldier on to #7.

You start to feel guilty for fantasizing about bearing Dr. Scott’s hearty, fat, blonde babies. You love your husband. You’re happily married. It’s just that he’s been working a lot, and you’re exhausted and overwhelmed and when Dr. Scott leans in and sets the cool metal end of his stethoscope on your son’s bare chest—your son who is still sitting on your lap—the room goes silent except for your baby’s gentle wheezing and the absolute timpani of your heartbeat. For one brief, bizarre moment, you worry that your heart is beating so loud that Dr. Scott’s stethoscope will pick it up. His head is very close to yours. His forearms seem electric and delicious, like they could power an entire midwestern town by sheer brute force and zeal for pediatric healthcare alone. You look down. Dr. Scott’s hand, cupping your son’s shoulder gently, is mere centimeters from your breast. Cen-ti-meters. What do you do?

1. Scooch closer. It doesn’t even have to be a big thing. Pretend to check your baby’s face. Pretend to cough. Anything to get his fingers to graze you right there. You’re in your slut era, queen! Go to #8.
2. Woman, you have to stay on target. You have a husband and a decent apartment and a beautiful son. Your boss says you can have your old retail job back whenever you’re ready. Dr. Scott is hot, but Dr. Scott is fleeting. He’s not even your child’s regular pediatrician. Stay very, very still. As a reward for your self-control, go to #9.

Your breast is now in full contact with Dr. Scott’s hand. It’s unmistakable. Dr. Scott pauses. His eyes trace from his hand, to your breast, to your eyes.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, but you don’t move. Neither does he. The force of his gaze is a continent.

“It’s alright,” he whispers back. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “I was hoping you would do that.”

“You were?” you ask. He nods. “Dr. Scott?”

“Yes?”

“Is Scott your first name, or your last?”

“It’s my first name,” he says. “The Society of Pediatric Health and Wellness recommends establishing as many points of connection with the patient as possible. Letting kids call me by my first name helps me gain their trust.”

Your heart warms into goo. “That’s beautiful.”

“Scott’s also my last name.”

You nod immediately. “Of course.”

“It’s because my parents—”

“Shhh. You don’t have to explain.”

“I’ve never felt like this with anyone,” he tells you. He starts to lean towards you, his eyes dropping to your lips.

What do you do?

1. It’s not too late to shut this down. Your connection is unreal, but you can’t set a flame to your entire life. Stability is the name of the game. Scoot back, and then scoot out of this office. Go home, applaud your maturity, and think back on this experience with fondness. For one brief golden moment, you were the main character of a story all your own. Now, if only your baby would sleep through the night. Go to #3 for all your efforts.
2. Meet Dr. Scott’s lips with your own. This is for real, and this is for forever. You leave your husband, informing him that you’ve met somebody who lights up your soul like a Christmas tree. He’s pretty pissed, but agrees to joint custody of the baby. The sex with Dr. Scott is world-altering. He’s busy, though. After only four months together, he starts picking up extra shifts at the office. Is a pediatrician’s office even open at 10:30 p.m.? You grow suspicious. One day, having had enough, you storm into the waiting room, past the receptionist’s desk, and straight to the back. A nurse tries to stop you, but you crash into Dr. Scott’s office. He’s pressing his stethoscope onto the bare breast of a mother who’s got a tiny infant on her lap. You scream, you tear the door off its hinges, you threaten to burn down the pediatrician’s office. But what was Dr. Scott to do? He’s surrounded by new moms all day. New moms are desperate to help their babies, but even more than that, they are desperate to feel sexy and alive again. You should’ve known this. Honestly, this one’s on you. Enjoy life as a single mom and revel in the brief regretful moment when you were the main character of a story all your own. Trudge over to #3.

The appointment ends without incident, and Dr. Scott recommends a tiny battery of prescriptions that will bring your baby back to full health. It’s possible that he shoots one last lingering glance at you before he leaves the room, but why should you care? You go home, satisfied that you spent the day making a string of completely correct choices. Of course, your husband still works a lot and your son doesn’t sleep through the night and you have another baby a year and a half later, but sexiness and youth are social constructs that you don’t care about. You don’t. You do, however, switch the kids’ primary caregiver to Dr. Scott, because what harm is there in looking? Overall, good for you, girl! Head on through to #10.

Why don’t you go back to #3 and end there? You’re a mother, which means that there’s never any choice of ending anywhere else.