I’ll admit I was already planning on a few down moments during choir retreat this year. In fact, I had prepared myself already for endless checking-in to see how I am feeling, constant offers to drive me around, and other pregnancy-related nonsense. What I did not expect was a mini-meltdown in the middle of the choir party. That was completely unexpected but I am NOT apologizing for my behavior.
The odds were against me:
- I’m eight months pregnant
- I was away from home, sleeping in a strange bed (which was technically two twin beds pushed together in a room where the heat regulation is unpredictable)
- I was not in control of most of my meals
The pregnancy part was the least of my concerns but was to be the number one topic on everyone’s lips in conversations with me. I get it! I have this enormous basketball-looking growth that will be a baby soon! I do have other opinions, ideas, and insights into various topics outside of childbirth and midwifery. Not that I don’t want to ever talk about it, I just don’t think that 30+ people realize that they all want to have the same conversation with me and that I might be tired of talking about how tired I am or how often I go to the bathroom or rehash my home birth plans for the umpteenth time. Can we stop talking about my vagina and whether or not I’ll be pushing a baby out of it, please?
Food-wise, Lake Logan did have prior notice about my dietary needs. However, I was sorely disappointed with every meal except breakfast. Breakfast is easy: eggs, bacon, toast. It’s what I eat every day anyway. Throwing wheat rolls at a menu of country-fried steak, mashed potatoes, and carrots and peas doesn’t make dinner diabetic-friendly. Neither does preparing a couple fruit cups and sticking them next to a gigantic “triffle” (their spelling). So after that “dinner” I literally retreated to my cabin where I gorged myself as best I could on walnuts, raisins, and baby carrots so I could at least have something in my stomach.
I was planning on not eating anything at the choir party. It was a given. There are always trays of brownies, cookies, and other carbalicious things that look amazing. I brought a tray of meats and cheeses so I could munch on something and not sit there looking completely forlorn.
But I lost it.
Here’s how it went down:
I got to the party, helped open my super-fancy Hormel party tray and found a place for it nestled amongst the other snacks on the table. I then perused the beverage selection and chose a fine diet ginger ale to satisfy my thirst since I couldn’t enjoy the aged bourbon I would have otherwise been drinking. After inspecting the table for anything else I could eat, I plopped a pile of protein on a paper plate (alliteration!) and moseyed back into the other room.
By this point, I had been at the party for about ten minutes and at least five people had already told me not to eat the “vodka tomatoes”.
1. There was a sign next to the tomatoes that said “VODKA TOMATOES.”
2. I can read.
By the time I finished my plate and went back for seconds, I think two more people told me to stay way from the Dangerous Vodka Tomatoes. I know they meant well but OH MY GOD. I lost it. In my loudest “mom voice” I made sure everyone could hear me:
“I’M NOT GOING TO EAT THE VODKA TOMATOES! OKAY? OKAY!”
An uncomfortable silence then fell on the entire party and I ran out of the room sobbing uncontrollably.
I cleared my throat, got some more food and left the food area to go sit down.
I think everyone was afraid of me at that point and I was so furious that I almost did start to cry. Once the games started and everyone had another glass or two of wine, my little outburst was forgotten. I left after two games and put myself in bed by 12:30. It was later that I planned to be up, but I would have wanted a ride back to my cabin even if I wasn’t pregnant.
So that was it. If I was a person who was easily embarrassed (usually I am) I would have been mortified by my behavior this weekend. Oh well.