Third Culture Kid(s)

Had my dr.’s appointment on Wednesday, where I was greeted by the entire nursing staff giving me the hairy eyeball (a term that, apparently, my husband has never heard once in his 41.9 years).  I didn’t know what the issue was until the nurse who was just about to take my blood pressure told me, coldly, that I was 45 minutes late.

Now, if you know me, you know that this is as absurd a statement as they come.  I am nothing if not my father’s daughter, and my father is - to put it very kindly - a stickler for time.  Precise, if you will.  If he says “4:00″ he means “4:00″ and not, say, “4:01.”  Seriously.  The first time I brought M. to meet my parents, I spent the entire time in a complete state of borderline hysteria, all because I was trying to merge my dad’s time-sticklerness with M.’s utter blitheness about time as a concept (if he says he’ll be another 30 minutes at work, you can pretty much count on it being at least another hour.  This is how he works and it drives me craaaaaaaaaaazy).

So, you know, I’m not late.  Ever.  IF I think I might be late, I call the place I’m going to let them know.  It’s my way.

So, I took this as a clear case of my integrity being impugned, and I proceeded to overreact.  Which, unfortunately for the nurse, included shooting my blood pressure waaaaay up high (I told her, splotchy-faced and visibly upset, that this was going to spike my BP; she said, “No, it won’t,” but then left quickly to go check the protein (or lack thereof) in my urine sample when the numbers kept climbing higher and higher.  I topped out at 188/95, and after that she did a nice about-face into stroking-my-arm-and-reassuring-me land.  I asked if I could go to my car and get the card that the receptionist had given me, which clearly states “3:15″ and not their “2:30,” but she told me she believed me.  She didn’t, of course, but I was starting to feel very absurd myself and decided to let it go.  At least, let it go out loud.  As M. said that evening, I clearly hadn’t let it go because I was still talking about it at 10:30 that night.  And still talking about it today - because I was right, dammit).

(The being “right” thing is also a legacy from my dad.  Bless his heart.)

Whatever she really thought of me at this point, I think she figured out that I was upset enough about being told I was wrong to back down, and my BP came back down to human levels quickly enough.  I even managed to tell her I was sorry for overreacting, and I didn’t go get the card from the car (but I showed it to M. on the way home from the station about 30 times, until he agreed that, yes, it actually said 3:15, and could I please move on now?).

And the appointment itself went fine.  Still measuring a little big, but not in a bad way.  2.0 was his usual busy self (probably the result of suddenly having to fight for blood flow), and I go back in two weeks.

So, at almost 31.5 weeks, I’m fine (if typically emotionally volatile, but that’s not unusual for me, obviously), kid’s fine, but I feel like the freaking side of a house.  A beached whale.  Pick your image - that’s me.  I waddle, I ache, and I agree with anyone who’s ever thought that 9 months (it’s really 10, isn’t it?) is 2 months too many.