Tag Archives: vacation

ALERT!!!

Our annual 2-week Outer Banks vacation (the one Eric and I missed last year due to the minor inconvenience of birthing a human) begins tomorrow, and so on Thursday, out of NOWHERE, Mom decided to inform us of a new vacation policy, which I think we can all agree was definitely deserving of the eye-catching, panic-inducing headline below.

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Ok.

Cool idea– I mean, we’re all down for reducing waste and making Mom feel better about her trip to Cambodia.

But unfortunately, Zack took a different approach to the huge grocery shop we do once we get down there, and decided to think ahead this year:

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Bummer. (Also hilarious).

But Mom, steadfast in her desire to save the planet one luxury beach vacation at a time, did not let this hiccup deter her.

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Zack, who spent his childhood tending to a trunk full of worm composting in our basement, was in no mood for a lecture.

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Regardless, he was down.

But he also wanted to be realistic about the fact that our desire to go green might directly conflict with our desire to not gag on what is essentially tepid toilet water.

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Mom would not be deterred.

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We thought the issue had been put to rest, but then Jeremy chimed in with his thoughts. And by “chimed” I mean he went on a Ranty McRant diatribe that he might as well submit for his PhD thesis. Pretty sure he wore a monocle while typing it.

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Yeah, I know.

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Dad then expressed exactly how he felt about the entire situation and basically let us know that we can all go fuck ourselves:

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Ok….

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Eons later, when we had all completely moved on with our lives, Steph found time to respond.

Her only concern was that her nanny be provided with her own tumbler.

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But what was super exciting about Steph’s response was that, for the first time in her life, she had used an exclamation point.

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Sadly, as you can see, it was a mistake. But least now we can rest assured that she knows where the ! key is located, should there ever be an emotive emergency.

Dad then took Steph’s query as an opportunity to remind us again how cool he is, in case we forgot:

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Ok, Dad. We get it.

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Mom remained undeterred. Hell or high (tap) water, this woman was getting us green.

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So there you have it.

Meanwhile, on the sibling text chain:

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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:

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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. )