Day 43: Catholicism Almost Killed Me

Well, not Catholicism as a religion, but as a culture that produces massive Irish Catholic families. Massiver than massive. Dine in shifts massive. Take a number massive. Hello My Name Is Massive.

Spent the weekend with Boyfriend's people in Edmonton for Thanksgiving. My people are flung all over the damn world, so I figured this would be the best way to score some pumpkin pie while getting a little family fix. Only my "fix" was more like an overdose. Not because they're bad people – they are the opposite of bad people in fact – it's just that THEY'RE FREAKING EVERYWHERE.

Especially the bathroom.

Every time I tried to go to the john, it was full of someone. I'd make my way to the downstairs bathroom. But it was occupied, too. I wandered back and forth, from bathroom to bathroom, meeting new people as I went. On every leg of my journey, someone offered me a drink. Because they're good hosts and wanted me to feel comfortable in a clearly overwhelming family scenario. And the best way to do that is to drink. Heavily. Only a drink was the LAST thing I wanted because I was about to pee my pants.

I was seconds from getting into the upstairs can when the three-year-old on the toilet (who neglected to close the door) had a bodily malfunction of some kind involving the emergency invasion of his mother, who brought along a garden hose and a new pair of pants.

I crossed my legs and pretended to look at some of the art on the walls while wondering if that boy's mom had an extra pair of pants for me. Or at least a diaper. It's okay if you wet yourself when you're three years old. Not so much if you're thirty-two.

The kid's pee-mergency eventually got cleared up, but I was still in Code Yellow. I must have blinked because someone else had slipped into the bathroom before I turned around. Or maybe that person was just really smart and hid in the bathroom cupboard while Mom was powerwashing her kid.

Meanwhile, one of Boyfriend's cousins was showing off his new fiancee. Who was showing off her ring. They were both wearing green shirts and I wasn't sure if they were trying out wedding colours or just getting a jump on Advanced Matching Tracksuit Wearing, which most people don't attempt until five or ten years into marriage.

All Boyfriend had to show off was his girlfriend's atrociously distended bladder.

Because by that time, fourteen members of the Hugest Family In History had offered or given or refilled my drink. My abdomen poked out so far I looked seven months pregnant. Which I sensed would raise a few eyebrows among Boyfriend's family members.

Not wanting to make an even worse first impression than I already had by autistically pacing back and forth, knocking on bathroom doors, I hid my pregnant bladder under the dinner table and stared longingly out the window at the dog who ran around the yard, happily peeing wherever he went.