Tag Archives: outer banks

My Uterus is Wearing a Catcher’s Mitt and Now We Can’t Go to the Beach, Part 2

(Follow-up to My Uterus Is Wearing a Catcher’s Mitt and Now We Can’t Go to the Beach)

Now that the day has arrived where my entire family heads down to the annual vacation in the Outer Banks without us, I think it’s important to revisit this conversation, first posted here but recounted for your convenience below:

Me (right after taking pregnancy test): “So…we’re pregnant! The only issue here is that the due date is August 26, literally smack in the middle of the Outer Banks vacation…”
Mom: “Well, we don’t KNOW that’s the due date.”
Me: “Ok. We do, though.”
Mom: “Let’s see what the doctor says.”
Me: “The doctor is going to say that’s the due date, because I used the exact same calculation method a doctor uses.”
Mom: “Em, let’s just see what he says, ok?”
(after going to doctor)
Me: “The doctor says the due date is August 26.”
Mom: “Ok, well let’s just see what happens.”

That conversation took place on December 18th, arguably with plenty of time to make some new vacation arrangements in terms of dates, but Mom preferred the “let’s just see what happens” approach, which I assume was wishful thinking that the baby would come a month early (not exactly a healthy thing to wish for) or a month late (not a thing, period), we’d still be able to go, and no one would have to put forth any kind of effort to rearrange plans.

Well, the vacation starts today, August 19th, and goes through September 2nd. I am exactly 39 weeks pregnant. My due date is still August 26th, despite my family hoping that the baby would decide, in utero, “You know what? I’m just going to go ahead and be a month older now.” Due to my gestational diabetes, the doctors will not let me go past 40.5 weeks, so if I don’t go naturally this week, I will be induced before the 29th.

All of this meaning that this baby has an indisputable, 100% chance of being born during this vacation. I, of course, can file this under “Things I Knew 8 Months Ago” but I guess sometimes it’s fun to take the “let’s see what happens” approach in the face of knowing pretty much EXACTLY WHAT WILL FUCKING HAPPEN.

Now, in my family’s defense, there was a major caveat involved in moving the vacation dates. We have been in the same rental house for about 8 years now, and the house is freakin awesome. We all love it. And the problem is that if we were to give up our two end-of-August weeks THIS year, we would then lose the house during this August block for future years. Since end of August is (typically) the best time for all of us to take off work and be there, we want to secure the house on those dates for the future, and giving it up this year would jeopardize that. So I kind of get it.

But the other way to look at it is that my family had a choice– us, or the house.

The house won.

(I originally wrote that as an extremely dramatic Sophie’s Choice metaphor, in which my family clung to the house for dear life and sent me and Eric to the gas chamber, but I decided to dial it back a bit. But still mention it here. In whispered parentheses. Where it doesn’t count as actually having wrote it, so no one can be offended.)

I also can’t help but be slightly resentful that despite over 25 years of our harassment on the topic, my parents have not just sucked it up and bought an awesome house down there already, instead of renting each year. Because now, thanks to my dad’s stubborn unwillingness to shell out hundreds of thousands of dollars (over a million? I don’t know what things cost) on a home he’ll realistically use 1% of the year, I CAN’T GO THIS ONE TIME.

That’s some fucking selfish, twisted logic, DAD.

But ok, again in fairness, I suppose Eric and I should take some responsibility here. As my brother-in-law Andrew pointed out right before hitting the road:

andrew.jpg

Fair.

But honestly, in the Seychellois-rum-infused moment, we legitimately did not realize the due date would be smack in the middle of family vacay, because, guys, pregnancy math is actually pretty complicated. Math in general is pretty complicated!

I’m a math tutor.

Whatever, the damage is done, and there are lots of things to blame: Dad’s blatant frugality and selfishness; Mom’s nonsensical wait-and-see strategy; math; Seychellois rum; Eric’s sniper-like, one-shot accuracy; my desperate, aging, catcher’s-mitt-wearing uterus; God; Lerman’s Law (like Murphy’s Law, but only applying to Lermans); and, last but not least, the baby.

No, I’m kidding. We would never blame the baby.

She just better be a good one.

(Disclaimer: if you think any of this post is serious, I really can’t help you. I like to assume my base is more Hillary-esque than Trumpian– aka, smart enough to know this. But there’s always that one, and for some reason (anxiety) I’m still afraid of you. On that note, One, stop reading my blog. Try this one instead. )

Roadblocks

Staring at your Charity Miles app for almost the entire duration of your 9 mile OBX run in what can only be described as dog-death humidity (I swear I passed a whimpering, defeated camel), does NOT make the time go by faster.

It DOES, however, cause you to trip over a toddler on his tricycle.

Sorry, kid.

But seriously. Stop crying.

You’re fine.

IMG_5432

Fat

It had been a while since I’d seen my therapist, so I had a lot to catch her up on. I told her about my upcoming family vacation in the Outer Banks, and that I was excited because I had invited Eric to come along. I also told her about my weekend in the North Fork babysitting my nephew, and how funny it was to see him next to slightly older babies who were crawling and walking, as he has yet to do anything but sit and occasionally roll over (one way only). I said it would be interesting to see if he was able to do anything new by the time we go to the Outer Banks mid-August. She smiled politely through all my babbling, and then chimed in….

Therapist: “Well that’ll be really nice to have him at the beach. He should be mobile by then.”
Me: (skeptical) “Eh…I doubt it. He’s pretty fat.”
Therapist: “Oh, um. Oh…I didn’t know…”
Me: “No, you know what I mean. Not in like a bad way. He’s just a total chunkster. I call him my little porkpie.”
Therapist: “Oh…that’s…oh.”
Me: “No, like, endearingly. He’s just a tub-a-lub. I just can’t imagine him walking any time soon. Like how is he supposed to get those lumpy doughboy thighs off the ground?”
Therapist: “Oh…but…is he able to do his physical therapy?”

It was at this point that I realized she was referring to Eric, who recently had ACL surgery. NOT my chubby 8-month-old nephew.

Me: “Oh my god…wait…you think I’m sitting here telling you Eric is a fat chunk who won’t walk any time soon?!”
Therapist: “Oh! You’re talking about the baby!”
Me: “Yes! Eric is not too fat to walk!”
Therapist: “Yeah you never mentioned him being fat…I thought maybe he gained some weight after surgery…”
Me: “I do not call Eric ‘my little porkpie!'”
Therapist (laughing): “Ok, good…”

It was at this point that I realized my therapist, who is responsible for my mental sanity, thinks I’m a terrible, twisted human being.

Eh. I’m ok with that.

IMG_1260

The Worst Kind of Kid

Kid (complaining): “Why is my photo on the classroom door in black and white and everyone else’s is in color?”

Me: “Because you missed the entire first week of school when we took the photos, so we had to print yours on the classroom printer instead of CVS. Remember that? When you missed the whole first week, because mom thought it was more important for you to be on vacation than to be in school learning? And you came back and had no idea what to do, and we had to take the time to re-explain every single thing you missed?”

Kid (head down): “Yeah…”

As a child, I missed the entire first week of school every single year, K through 8th grade, to vacation with my family in the Outer Banks. 

It was fucking awesome.