Handle with Care — Or Else!

by Randy Garbin

About four months pass since our nuptials, and my wife tells me we're pregnant. I couldn’t be happier. I’ve waited a long time for this moment, and I look forward to meeting my new daughter (yes, we wanted to know). I know my life is about to change big time because everyone now tells me, “Your life is about to change. Big time.”

This will naturally affect our road trips and their frequency, and recently I believe I got something of a preview of what to expect. Six months into her term, Louise and I took a road trip back to Massachusetts. I have traveled nearly a half-million miles exploring the country over the past fifteen years. This was my first road trip with a pregnant woman.

Long before she began to show, my dear wife tried to prepare me for some of the changes. She says to me, “I need to eat every two hours.” Sounds reasonable. Eating for two, and all that. She also says, “I will have to pee a lot more.” Right. Increased pressure on the bladder. I take pride in my comprehension of the general mechanics of pregnancy.

I failed, however, to weigh the implications of this physiology on our travel habits.

My dear wife has entered that awkward and uncomfortable stage of pregnancy just as the weather takes a turn for the warmer and stickier. I anticipate the additional demands on her body to shorten tempers and spark new tensions, but Louise has so far exibited little irritability in any outward sense. This is consistent with her non-pregnant demeanor. I’ve known few people so even-tempered.

Louise does occasionally get irritated, mostly thanks to my shortcomings, but she won’t yell or slam a hapless door. When her patience does finally wear thin, a stillness falls over her. If it gets especially trying for her, the tension radiates into the atmosphere, like the energy of a microwave oven. She may stare blankly into space or she might even continue to carry a relatively normal conversation, but when she’s truly bothered, she can reheat a full plate of leftovers within a 30-foot radius. I can usually tell when something’s bothering Louise by checking the kitchen cabinet to see if anything has exploded. Pregnancy has only amplified this power.

This road trip encompassed a four-day journey taking us from Philadelphia to Springfield, Leominster, and then Dennis, Massachusetts on Cape Cod. After a full day on the Cape, we returned to Philly by way of Springfield. In other words, hundreds of miles in a small car with my mother and a woman six months pregnant along highways I have grown completely tired of using.

On this trip, I hope to achieve three conflicting goals: One, get to our respective destinations as soon and safely as possible. Two, make sure my wife is well-fed and well-drained. Three, try to learn something new along this trip. When we stop to eat, I want to try a new diner or some other quality local restaurant. It’s that third goal that gets me into trouble.

After leaving the Cape, we made one Roadside-related visit, lingering a good half-hour longer than planned. We then drop off Mom in Springfield and get back on the road in short order, but then I stopped to get new wiper-blades, only to struggle with their installation.

Back on the road, we reach the Merritt Parkway where traffic thickens and slows due to construction. About that time, Louise broaches the topic of food again. Instead of stopping immediately, I formulate an on-the-fly plan to find a diner at a half-way point along the trip, forty-five minutes away. In the car almost two hours already, I frantically scan my memory for diners along this route while my internal Geiger counter detects a sharp up tick Louise’s radioactivity. A good take-out place would do the trick and return things to normal -- if I could only find one.

I reassure Louise that a good diner awaits us right over the Hudson, one not on my “1000 Diners” list. But again, we hit traffic. I suggest snacking on the trail mix. No dice. She needs meat and she needs it soon. I keep my hands and feet away from her mouth.

When we finally reach the Nanuet Diner, hopeful thoughts of a relaxing, albeit quick, sit-down dinner in the diner quickly evaporate. Barely through the entrance, Louise tells the host we want take-out before he can say “hello.”

By the time we finally reach home, Louise’s seems calm, but something had begun to singe the hairs off my arms and toast the shirt on my back. When she exits the car, she leaves behind a Shroud-of-Turin-like imprint on the seat. Not good.

Pregnancy has indeed brought a warm and lovely glow to my wife’s appearance, but she now possessed the power to turn people into pillars of salt. In the house barely five minutes, this power has defrosted a twelve-pound turkey. And like an idiot with no comprehension of the monster before me, I attempt a stand. “But honey, you know I like to roam when I travel.”

In response, beams of light burst from her pores. She’s become pure energy, sparing my life only to avoid single motherhood.

Several apologies, a back rub, and an unloaded dishwasher later, things return to normal. The next day, as I paint over the Randy-shaped shadow burned into the wall, I consider the valuable lesson I just learned. Traveling with a pregnant woman prepares for traveling with child.

Though I know from those who’ve eagerly shared their experiences, my future road trips with my future daughter will probably render schedules useless. Despite this, I look to at least one reward, that of seeing even familiar parts of the landscape through a fresh pair of young eyes. A brand new co-pilot can make even the most thoroughly beaten paths a joy again. And no co-pilot is better than one you made yourself.

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