When it rains, it pours.

I don’t have my Filipino driver’s license yet, and anyway, I’m not quite sure I want to drive around in my parents’ huge SUV – not in these dirt streets that were essentially made for motorcycles. Rob doesn’t have a Filipino driver’s license either. And while he doesn’t mind breaking the rules to get to Point B, that’s only possible when my brother, aka The Keeper of the Car, is in a really, really, really generous mood and I’m in a really, really, really risk-taking kind of mood. Those two events line up once in a blue cheese moon, so in order to go anywhere, I essentially have to ask my younger brother to chauffer us around.

I haven’t mentioned my brother onhere very much, and that’s for good reason.  He’s not – oh, how should I put this? – the easiest person in the world to deal with. Our relationship revolves around me, acting like I’m his mom, and him, giving me pains like only a teenager/20-something can give to his mother. Our mom prefers it this way, and this is how it’s been for as long as I can remember. Needless to say, many, many therapy sessions have been focused on this strange knot of familial relations.

Anywhos, now that I’m pregnant, I find myself cutting through red tape very often with my brother, if only to negotiate when he can drive me to my prenatal appointments. And today was an especially headache inducing episode of WTF!?-ness, as my dear little brother chose to ignore my request to leave the house at 1 p.m. We left the house, instead, at 2 p.m., which is when the doors to my ob-gyn’s office are opened. And lo and behold: There I was, all the way down at #12. We ended up getting home six hours later. And then he had the nerve to cop an attitude with me because he was stuck at a nearby mall for six hours, twiddling his thumbs.

Look, dude, if you’da only listened to me, this wouldn’t have happened. Relax yourself and walk away before I snuff you.

This is where I should mention: I firmly believe that any court will dismiss violent charges against a pregnant woman. I mean, if the Twinkie defense worked-?

Yeah, so I had all of that retardedness to deal with, and also: The bill. Because in the good ol’ US of A, I had health insurance, so I never dropped a dime on health expenses and the hospital paid for my Metrocard to and from my appointment. Here? Every single drop of attention from anyone wearing anything even minutely resembling hospital scrubs comes straight. outta. my. pocket. (Except for 20% of lab fees. I think. I have to apply for that next week.) When I compare the fees to how much they would’ve been in the States had I not had insurance, I feel like I should be grateful. I mean, over here, at one of the best hospitals in the country, I paid $200 for a full blood workup. Now, don’t get me wrong: That’s a lot because I’m broke. But in the international scheme of things, that’s tiny compared to what I could’ve been charged. In a couple of weeks, I’ll find out how much a normal labor and delivery cost.

This whole money conversation would have gotten me feeling really upset, except for the fact that a couple of things have been going my way in that department. I don’t want to jinx them by mentioning what they are, but suffice it to say, I’m not worrying too much about finances. In a couple of months, Rob will be working and earning dollars, then I’ll definitely have nothing to worry about. As much as I hate to admit it, Rob was right. Him going back to NYC and making money really is the right thing for us as a family – even if the kids and I are gonna miss the hell out of him.

And icing on the cake of things to worry about: Midterms are coming up, Rob leaves in about six weeks, and we still don’t have a nanny.

As of yesterday, no one was lined up for the position, but as of right now, there are four ladies vying for it. I still haven’t decided who to pick.


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