Despite the sub-zero temperatures, it appears that she’s come directly from the maternity ward to help celebrate “Bring Your Screaming Newborn To The Golden Arches Day” with her neonate, still very pink and clearly not quite completely rid of its amniotic slime, screaming ceaselessly while she attempts to order up an Angus Burger for herself and two Happy Meals for the twin toddlers she has in tow.
She doesn’t seem to hear it, though, over the din of preschoolers, kindergarteners, and numerous other two-foot tall clientele currently outnumbering the adults by about five to one, each louder than the next except for those busily sucking their thumbs or attempting to pick their winter-snotted nostrils with freshly un-mittened fingers.
Scattered thinly among them are women—some of them very, very young women—proudly displaying demure baby bumps or gigantic barge-like bellies apparently ready to burst. Scattered even more thinly among the women are their men, some of them beaming, but most of them looking haggard and wary, all of them reaching almost automatically for their wallets.
No one could be more surprised and disappointed than he, having stepped inside from the cold for a quick, cheap lunch, hoping for a few quiet minutes collecting his thoughts in his journal. All he can think to write about is how much better he feels about the vasectomy.