When I was pregnant with our son, my sensitivity to all things dairy, suddenly escalated to monolithic proportions. I even had to change my margarine to one of those lactose-free brands. Yuck. But it did not stop me from giving in to the inevitable craving for pizza or ice cream, every so often. Sadly, to my demise, as it generally meant a panic stricken search for a clean washroom within just a few short hours of my having cheated.
In those days we were struggling financially. My husband had just finished his last year of education, we hadn't a car and we were frantically looking for a larger abode to happily accommodate baby and us.
One particular fall day, after he had found employment at a museum in Halifax, we had been loaned an in-law's vehicle for a short period of time and were driving throughout Herring Cove, which is south of Halifax, looking for "apartment for rent" signs that looked promising.
At this juncture, you need to understand that, just a few short hours earlier, I had indeed indulged in some of my forbidden fruits - a huge chunk of cheese, crumbled up into a homemade Greek salad, having justified that perhaps, as it was sheep's milk cheese, perhaps the effect would not be as dramatic as usual. And honestly? - I had forgotten about it.
This was when Murphy's Law kicked in with a huge vengeance for the first time in my recollection.
So far the search had not produced any results but we were enjoying the ride at least. I believe it was when we had just rounded a corner to head back into the city again when the first abdominal cramps hit me. And I mentioned to my husband that I should probably start to look for a washroom any time soon, assuming, since we were about to reenter a commercial district within about five minutes, I would be quite all right. No need to panic.
And then something inside me decided to make things interesting when my bowel suddenly told me to step up the search. Now I know, about now, you are saying, "Ew, too much information..." and you would, essentially, be right; except to say, like language censors in the film industry, I need to let this one slide because it gives my story drama and really, it wouldn't mean much to you without these intimate details. Permission having been granted to get graphic I will say this one thing.
When a pregnancy begins to asset itself, even early on, the carrier of such learns very quickly to cooperate with it - or else. As was the case on this particular day with me. I was about to get a lesson on who the boss was, now that my fertility had been established, and I can say with intense certainty, it sure wasn't me.
My husband suddenly, without warning, caught my panic when he drove like a demon past a wildlife park and, having decided there had to be a public washroom within its boundaries, turned in the long driveway, taking us speedily into its interiors. When the car plummeted over a deeply rutted road to come to a stop in front of a dead end surrounded by trees and shrubs, he turned to me and told me to check the glove box for some paper towels or Kleenex; anything that could free me up to be on my merry way. I complied and, having found nothing, he appealed to my prehistoric instinctual urges, suggesting I use a few leaves for final cleanup.
Now, before we go any further, I must say that one thing that kicks in when a woman is expecting is this inane sense of what experts call nest making, which often manifests in a brand new need for cleanliness and hygiene. Obviously this is to protect the new baby and it is a strong urge, I can tell you.
Needless to say, that urge actually overruled my need to "go" and I told him there was no way in Hades I was gonna use some leaves and if he did not find me a real washroom I did not know what I was going to do. I distinctly remember crying. But softly, lest my howls unleash the monster that lurked within.
Incidentally, I never understood why that borrowed car had neither Kleenex or even leftover napkins from a fast food meal, stashed in the car somewhere. It just didn't seem normal.
So, he put the car in reverse and tore over the dirt road once again. I believe I can attest to his beginning, at this point, to have sympathy pains, which is common with very empathic men when their mates give birth. I tell you, my pains were beginning to feel a bit like I imagined contractions might, so things were looking pretty dicey in that car.
Mercifully, there were no cops with radar guns waiting on any corners in Herring Cove Road that day. I honestly don't think I would have made it had we gotten pulled over for speeding. Imagine explaining that one in court.
Just when I thought I had reached the point of no return, he practically yelled out, "There's the golden M! We made it" He made a sharp left and we were parked in the lot. I tore into McDonalds, flew to the washroom and, wouldn't you know it, there were only two one-seaters at this store, and the one that had the little graphic picture of a stick woman, complete with triangular dress, had a short line in front of it.
I hastily looked across the hall. There was nobody in front of the men's washroom. I took in a deep breath and knocked on the door, pretending the three women in the lineup weren't tsk tsking and giving me odd looks. I wasn't even showing yet so they had no reason to excuse me.
But at that point, I can tell you, I just didn't give a rat's patootie.
When I finally emerged, having made a solemn pact with myself never to take such culinary risks again, or at least until I had given birth, I ventured out into the lobby where my husband was waiting.
He had two ice cream cones, one in each hand, and he was licking one.
Without batting an eyelid, he held the one out to me that he was not tasting and said, "Do you want one?"
I looked at him and felt my blood pressure rise instantly.
I asked him if he were trying to kill me.
It was then I realized, with chagrin, that he must have ADD. I had heard, somewhere, that it was genetically passed on. I figured that was why there were no Kleenex in that borrowed car that day.
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