So remember how I said this kid was going to be different? Well, truer words have not been spoken and he hasn’t even made his arrival.
You see, I had my glucose test at 28 weeks and failed miserably. I thought, ‘No sweat, I’ve been here before.’ So I went back a week later for the extended glucose test and apparently failed that sucker with flying colors, too, which led to a diagnosis of gestational diabetes.
Now is just about where my world starts spinning – physically from the sugar highs/lows that I could never figure out before but emotionally as I soon realize what exactly this means.
Initially I thought it would just mean that my oatmeal breakfast could no longer be supplemented by a Krispy Kreme Hot-n-Now, my lunch probably shouldn’t include three double chocolate chip cookies with my Subway sandwich and my after-dinner-dessert would have to be toned down a bit. After all, when I think of diabetes, I think of too much sugar and then I think of muffins, cakes, and pies and then I get really hungry. I assumed I would just have to incorporate more fruit in place of the fudge brownies.
Boy, was I wrong.
And so off I went to a diabetes education class. This is where I learned that not only could I not have my donuts, cookies and an occasional Pibb with my dinner but that I also had to strictly monitor my intake of carbs, especially those with a high glycemic index like corn, apples, potatoes and spaghetti. And by monitor, I mean cut out completely.
Sure, I can have one-half cup of spaghetti noodles but what’s the point? Who wants half a cup? That’s more torture than having none. And don’t you even think of adding sauce to that half-cup of noodles. No siree. Too much sugar in that jar. Throw a little butter on them there noodles and call it dinner.
Oh and the fun doesn’t even stop there. At this class, they handed me a cute little gadget and proceeded to show me how to poke myself FOUR TIMES A DAY to check my levels and log every last bite that goes into my mouth. I’m sorry, you want me to intentionally draw blood multiple times each day from my poor, malnourished fingers and then write down each time I pop a peanut in my mouth?
Obviously I’m being a bit overdramatic but you just don’t go messing with a pregnant woman’s food. I mean, dang. I’ll straight up fight my own spawn for the last piece of cake if the mood strikes…don’t think I won’t do the same to a dietician taking away all things tasty.
Clearly this ‘trial’ is teaching me some serious discipline. I love food and especially so when I’m pregnant. I proudly gained 60lbs with d’s 1-3 and had intended this one to be no different. However, here I sit at week 32 and have gained 34lbs. After first going on this diet, I even lost a few which is totally foreign to me but made sense. I mean, a girl can only eat so much salad and turkey sandwiches {on whole wheat bread} before the fetus starts whittling away at my fat storage. Or so that’s what I’m hypothesizing.
Now that it’s been a couple of weeks, I’ve toned down my drama queen act a bit by finding some bright spots along the way and am trying to focus on them when I get annoyed/bitter/cranky. Like the fact that I can still eat my Chipotle Steak Fajita Burrito Bowl. I just have to limit the amazing cilantro-lime rice to, oh, I don’t know, 6 grains and stay away from that chili-corn salsa because, remember, corn is EVIL. Who knew?
And I can almost have all the peanut butter I want. Oh sure, peanut butter is great. I love it but mostly with CHOCOLATE. For now, I’m learning to love it on whole wheat toast, celery sticks and, if I really want to be a rebel and have an extra special treat, I can put it on one {singular} graham cracker. I’ll admit that I’ve been pleasantly surprised to find that Peanut Butter Toast Crunch cereal with almond milk has been a great breakfast alternative to the suggested eggs and toast. And since then, I’ve often contemplated living on just PB Toast Crunch for every meal until D-Day. The thought crosses my mind more often when I eat 2+ salads in any given day…a girl can only take so much lettuce.
Some have made comments like, ‘Look at it this way – it’s just a jump start to your post baby bod.’ And I’ll confess that I might have wanted to stab them with my diabetic lancet. Same violent thoughts to those who ask if my doctors are positive it's not twins. Seriously? Aside from asking someone if they're pregnant {when there's always that chance that they're not}, this is the other question you don't ask someone who is already feeling gargantuan.
Are any of you pitying Dallas right now? Sometimes I think, ‘Poor Dallas. Not only does he have to battle my pregnancy hormones but now he’s got a pregnant and famished crazy on his hands.’ And then he goes and eats an entire bag of Lay’s before bed while I ration my string cheese and, just like that, my sympathy is gone.
In conclusion, I’d like to put everyone on notice now. If you desire to visit me in the hospital {or in the two weeks following d4’s birth at our home}, you must know that there will be an edible entry fee. Forget the diapers or meals for the rest of my family, just bring one of the following and you’ll be allowed in:
1) A case of Mr. Pibb
2) One pan of Godiva dark chocolate brownies covered in Trader Joe’s cookie butter icing {one fork}
3) Oreo Sonic Blizzard topped with crushed Reeses PB cups {one spoon}
4) Red Robin Guacamole Bacon Burger WITH bun
5) FRENCH FRIES – McDonald’s, Fuddruckers, Dodge’s Gas Station – I will not discriminate
Sweet little d4 {who is probably starving in utero} – we will one day talk about this. I realize it’s your placenta’s fault but you’re just sort of guilty by association. Sorry, Charlie. {And no, that’s not his name!}
Eight weeks and counting…
