It is at this point that I must share something intensely personal (spoiler alert - there is much more of this to come). World travel is not like in the movies, where you meet a tall dark stranger who whisks you away to an island paradise*. Yes, destinations can be glamorous and beautiful, but everyday problems still occur that must be dealt with.
* Surprise - he's going to hunt you for sport!
And that is why, despite warm weather, charming people and breathtaking scenery (and Guinness), what I will remember most from our time in Ireland was the battle raging in my pants, that of thighs vs. chafing. And chafing was taking it to my thighs like Georgia Tech to Cumberland.
Each day in Dublin was an exercise in futility. We'd set out in the morning, and 12 steps from our hotel I was already forced to walk like a man trying to hold a yardstick between my knees. Our dystopian future may end up with us egg-shaped and riding around on scooters, but at least we won't need to carry a metric ton of baby powder with us everywhere we go.
That said, I have to admit that I have buried the lead (Thigh chafing wasn't the lead?) to this point.
There is a reason why it took me this long to recap the last part of our journey, and that is because the end of our trip will be forever linked in my mind with what came directly after.
While in Dublin, Hilary's mood began to change. She was tired. She craved Wagamama. Her boobs hurt, she said.
To each complaint, I jokingly said, "Maybe you're pregnant."
"Ha," she said.
We returned home to the states on a Friday. On Sunday, still grumpy, tired, and boob-hurty, Hilary took a pregnancy test, and this time I was present for the occasion. And what do you know? My boys could swim again!
The first time we found out we were pregnant, I was equal parts excited and terrified. This time, knowing at least what it's like on the other side, I was mostly excited. Although in the weeks since I've noticed that the finish line somehow keeps moving.
Before we had kids, I would always hear parents say how much their lives changed after they started a family. I was nervous about giving up so much of myself and my free time, but in the nearly two years that we've had Jamie we've managed to find an equilibrium.
So it's been disheartening to hear parents now let us in on the information that really, one kid is a breeze. "Just wait until you have two," they say, "then things really get hectic."
All this time I thought we'd cleared the final hurdle, and now you're telling me the race hasn't even begun?
Not cool.
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Some people might not take kindly to new information that threatens to turn their lives upside down.Apparently, I am one of them.
In the immediate aftermath of finding out we were bringing another piece of inventory into the Jewish camping system (as my dad likes to say), my body held a closed door meeting to discuss the news.
After a heated exchange, my appendix decided this was more than it could stomach** and tendered its resignation effectively immediately, no two weeks notice given.
** I know. I couldn't resist.
For the entirety of my adult life, getting appendicitis has been my biggest non-plane-crash-related fear. Literally, any time I would have even a modicum of discomfort in my abdomen, I'd immediately worry that my appendix was about to burst.
Everyone I've spoken with since this happened has found this fact hilarious. "What's wrong with you that you're so afraid of appendicitis?" they snicker.
To which I say, NO - what is wrong with YOU that you aren't MORE afraid of it?
Our appendices are ticking time bombs people. They refuse to go gentle into that good night. Nay, they rage - rage against the dying of the light! They can go at any moment, for any reason, often having nothing to do with finding out your wife is with child.
I have heard too many horror stories about people with appendicitis experiencing intense stomach pain, projectile vomiting, and high fevers***. What fun! But hey, at least if it goes untreated for like 24 hours it can become toxic and potentially life-threatening!
*** But no thigh-chafing, so I suppose that's a plus.
I refuse to believe this is an irrational fear. It is rati-fucking-nal. But I digress. The point of this diatribe is to say that barely 24 hours after finding out Hilary was knocked up, I was in the emergency room getting prepped to have my appendix removed.
And yet - after all the flop sweat I wasted over the years on the subject, it turned out to be likely the most mundane case of appendicitis on record.
In summary: I felt sort of off, Hilary made me grudgingly go to the minute clinic, they sent me on to the hospital, and the next day I was sans appendix, without ever feeling pain any worse than say a really annoying hangnail.
Truly, the worst part of the whole experience by FAR was the trump card it gave Hilary regarding health care. I'm not sure what the expiration date is for her being able to hold this over my head. How long until the end of all time and space? That, plus maybe a few weeks added on for good measure.
If you're still reading at this point, you are probably long past wondering why I am including any of this in what is supposed to be a recap of our trip to Ireland, but for me the discovery of the pregnancy (holy shit!) and the appendicitis (HOLY SHIT!) will forever be inseparable from the memories I have of the Emerald Isle.
We hoped that our trip to Europe would be our last hurrah before a large change in the family dynamic, and while from a logistical standpoint (earmuffs kids) I don't think we have any reason to name our kids Eiffel or Erin Go Bragh, I like to think it provided a wonderful close of chapter, a tentpole experience to help demarcate the years as they inevitably begin to smush together.
Plus, I no longer have to worry about appendicitis. Kidney stones, I guess it's your time to shine.
