To the shock of absolutely no one, I failed my glucose test this morning. I mean, why not? Getting pregnant was hard. Being pregnant is hard. Why not add another dimension of making my life difficult in this area?
Yes, I'm unnecessarily bitter about this. My doctor is convinced I'll pass the three-hour test with no problem...although he put off my one-hour test until 28 weeks because I had no symptoms or risk factors for diabetes, and he was convinced I'd pass no problem. I'm definitely all about defying the odds and being that one in a huge number statistic.
Honestly, when Dr. G. called with my results, I wanted to cry. I was at work, surrounded by co-workers in neighboring cubicles, so I couldn't, but I wanted to. I just wanted to quit. Everything. 148 with a cutoff of 140. 8 points. Un-freaking-believable.
I had much more to write about--good things--but I'm too annoyed to remember everything. So here's the rundown of the rest of my appointment today.
Heart rate in the 140s. Belly measuring 1 cm small. I'm up a total of 16 pounds. Blood pressure 90/55.
Dr. G. noted in my chart that he's "90% sure" baby is now head down, but I still have too much ab definition for him to be 100% sure. Yeah...that's never been an issue for me before EVER, but I'm pretty sure I'm going to add "too much ab definition" to my resume.
That's the only good thing to come out of my appointment today.
So...what are the secrets to cheating the 3-hour glucose test? Anyone fail their 1-hour and then pass the 3-hour? Should I be cutting out sugar this week, or eating more so the glucose isn't a shock to my system that morning? Dr. G. told me to walk a lot the day before - any other special tricks? I walked all over the hospital today between the end of my appointment and waiting for the hour to be up for my blood draw, mostly because I was bored and I didn't want to sit with all the sick people at the lab. Clearly it helped a lot.
Monday, January 26, 2015
Thursday, January 15, 2015
Groundhog
My birthday is February 2. And as all of you Bill Murray fans know, that is also Groundhog's Day. So it's safe to say that I've felt some kinship with groundhogs all of my life.
Right now, specifically this groundhog:
I feel ya, buddy. The look in his eyes, the not-actually-sure-if-I-can-move defeat written all over his face. I have that. The decision to keep lying on the couch in the exact same position for three hours, even though I'm starving, even though I'm about to pee my pants, even though my back is killing me, still seems easier than making the effort to lift my own body weight.
I think it's safe to say I've become pretty lazy in recent weeks.
And here's the kicker. I'm not even that big. Most people are shocked to find out I'm six and a half months pregnant. I'm still wearing my normal shirts about half the time. My belly is round and I would say I'm noticeably pregnant, but I'm not huge. In fact, I still forget I'm pregnant quite often--until I stand up, knock things off the grocery store shelf with my belly, or try to fit between the back of my car and the garbage can in our garage...and can't. A group of my friends has been playing volleyball pretty regularly on Friday or Saturday nights this winter and I've been so tempted to join in. I suppose I probably could, except that I'm really slow, incredibly out of shape, I can't jump, and no one would want me on their team. I would also be worried about my shifting center of gravity, as my balance has not been good recently. Since I've always been more on the athletic side, I'll admit that this is a little new to me. I never went through a gangly puberty stage where I was all limbs as many of my friends did. But I'm going through that now, and I do feel a bit like a stranger in my own body. I'm clumsier and my hand-eye coordination is much worse. It's very strange.
My best friend Emma came up for a few days around New Year's and we spent a few nights together, which was great. I know I was so jealous when she was pregnant and pretty terrible friend to her, but she was perfect. She asked about things, but I loved how careful she was in sharing her experience. Even when I would ask her questions, she was always so careful to word her answers in a way that didn't make her sound like an expert. She'd always be quick to add, "it didn't work for me, but you might be much better at it" or "this is what I did, but it's definitely not the only way to do it." I know she was trying to not make me feel like she knows everything and I know nothing, or belittle my experience even though I'm a year late--and I appreciated it. She also mentioned that she thought I looked great, like "one of those really athletic pregnant women." I'm pretty sure I laughed out loud at that. About the last thing I'm feeling right now is athletic--see above groundhog photo.
Overall, I'm feeling pretty blah. I haven't reached the point where I'm super uncomfortable, but I'm not really nesting or itching to get things done. I'd rather lie on my couch and watch hours of Call the Midwife (this is so far away from the kind of TV I normally watch, but I'm hooked. Emma recommended it to me and I can't stop watching. I hate Downton Abby, but I've become entranced by these 1950s British midwife nuns. It's my pickles and ice cream, I guess).
A few friends have stated they're throwing me a shower, even though I adamantly insisted on not having one (I also adamantly insisted on not having a bridal shower - I had three). There's a whole post coming on that eventually. The ladies at work have also begun telling me they want to throw a shower. Maybe I'll call in sick that day.
Not much else is new. My mom keeps buying me maternity pants, even though I've told her I'm pretty set. I borrowed everything from a friend, bought a few shirts, and plan to move on to Bobby's clothes once I reach beached whale state. I'm already stealing his flannel shirts. They're comfy and warm, and I can wear them with leggings and call them a dress--though to be fair, I stole his flannels long before I got pregnant (I know what you're thinking, why isn't this a fashion blog!? I could call it Below Zero Chic). We're right in the middle of putting a bathroom in our basement. Since I can't be around all the glues and the sealants in such an enclosed space, and my dad and Bobby are both overprotective and won't let me even help carry things downstairs (Bobby thinks the laundry hamper is too heavy for me), I'm getting out of doing pretty much any work. Which in my current lazy state, I'm okay with. More time for Call the Midwife!
Right now, specifically this groundhog:
 |
| This, my friends, is my spirit animal. |
I think it's safe to say I've become pretty lazy in recent weeks.
And here's the kicker. I'm not even that big. Most people are shocked to find out I'm six and a half months pregnant. I'm still wearing my normal shirts about half the time. My belly is round and I would say I'm noticeably pregnant, but I'm not huge. In fact, I still forget I'm pregnant quite often--until I stand up, knock things off the grocery store shelf with my belly, or try to fit between the back of my car and the garbage can in our garage...and can't. A group of my friends has been playing volleyball pretty regularly on Friday or Saturday nights this winter and I've been so tempted to join in. I suppose I probably could, except that I'm really slow, incredibly out of shape, I can't jump, and no one would want me on their team. I would also be worried about my shifting center of gravity, as my balance has not been good recently. Since I've always been more on the athletic side, I'll admit that this is a little new to me. I never went through a gangly puberty stage where I was all limbs as many of my friends did. But I'm going through that now, and I do feel a bit like a stranger in my own body. I'm clumsier and my hand-eye coordination is much worse. It's very strange.
My best friend Emma came up for a few days around New Year's and we spent a few nights together, which was great. I know I was so jealous when she was pregnant and pretty terrible friend to her, but she was perfect. She asked about things, but I loved how careful she was in sharing her experience. Even when I would ask her questions, she was always so careful to word her answers in a way that didn't make her sound like an expert. She'd always be quick to add, "it didn't work for me, but you might be much better at it" or "this is what I did, but it's definitely not the only way to do it." I know she was trying to not make me feel like she knows everything and I know nothing, or belittle my experience even though I'm a year late--and I appreciated it. She also mentioned that she thought I looked great, like "one of those really athletic pregnant women." I'm pretty sure I laughed out loud at that. About the last thing I'm feeling right now is athletic--see above groundhog photo.
Overall, I'm feeling pretty blah. I haven't reached the point where I'm super uncomfortable, but I'm not really nesting or itching to get things done. I'd rather lie on my couch and watch hours of Call the Midwife (this is so far away from the kind of TV I normally watch, but I'm hooked. Emma recommended it to me and I can't stop watching. I hate Downton Abby, but I've become entranced by these 1950s British midwife nuns. It's my pickles and ice cream, I guess).
A few friends have stated they're throwing me a shower, even though I adamantly insisted on not having one (I also adamantly insisted on not having a bridal shower - I had three). There's a whole post coming on that eventually. The ladies at work have also begun telling me they want to throw a shower. Maybe I'll call in sick that day.
Not much else is new. My mom keeps buying me maternity pants, even though I've told her I'm pretty set. I borrowed everything from a friend, bought a few shirts, and plan to move on to Bobby's clothes once I reach beached whale state. I'm already stealing his flannel shirts. They're comfy and warm, and I can wear them with leggings and call them a dress--though to be fair, I stole his flannels long before I got pregnant (I know what you're thinking, why isn't this a fashion blog!? I could call it Below Zero Chic). We're right in the middle of putting a bathroom in our basement. Since I can't be around all the glues and the sealants in such an enclosed space, and my dad and Bobby are both overprotective and won't let me even help carry things downstairs (Bobby thinks the laundry hamper is too heavy for me), I'm getting out of doing pretty much any work. Which in my current lazy state, I'm okay with. More time for Call the Midwife!
Tuesday, January 6, 2015
Seeking Your Pity: Weather Edition
I'd like you all to feel bad for me, so I'm just going to post this photo of the weather forecast around here:
You see that bright spot on Thursday? Where it's a whole 19 degrees (that's Fahrenheit, Aramis) ABOVE ZERO? I've already promised myself I will get outside and go for a walk. I could use the fresh air. And let me tell you, at 19 degrees with a 20% chance of snow, the air is pretty freaking fresh. And yes, you are correct. That little red box in the corner DOES say there's a windchill warning (FYI it's currently sitting at 35 to 45 degrees BELOW ZERO). Which means it's actually unsafe for your skin to be out in the air uncovered for even a very short amount of time. Why do I live somewhere that the air is so cold it's actually dangerous? I don't have any idea. I don't even snowmobile! Or ice fish. Or even ski very well. I need to move. Or at least take a vacation to somewhere you can't throw a pot of boiling water out the back door and have it freeze mid-air (yes, it works. Welcome to fifth grade science class in Minnesota.)
There's not much else going on around here--I mean, how much else can you really do when you have to put effort in to surviving your air. I'm feeling big and lazy. I'm washing my hands a million times a day to try to keep from getting sick. And I'm putting on hand lotion two million times a day so my hands stay all in one piece and avoid cracking and bleeding. The rest of the time I'm trying to work up to the motivation to do anything other than lie on my couch watching Netflix from the time I walk in the door after work until I go to bed at 9:00 p.m. I need a hobby. Or to join a gym. At least a few days a week, I drag my butt downstairs to half-heartedly jog (playing fast and loose with that word) on the treadmill for two episodes of 30 Rock. I know, I know, I'm practically a fitness goddess at this point. I mean, I'm not quite Jane with her half marathon and record-setting swim times (while pregnant), but I'm pretty freaking close. Notice I did say TWO episodes of 30 Rock.
I've still avoided getting stretch marks on my belly, but they are starting to show up on my boobs. Bobby's not complaining though, because my boobs have at least doubled in size. And since I haven't actually bought any bras to accommodate their enormous new mass, I'm just going for the Sofia Vergara look--if she were short, white, and chubby instead of hot and Colombian.
We also finally decided we should do something about the nursery. So we moved around some shelves in the closet and bought two cube storage shelves and some fabric box organizers. So still nothing for baby to wear, sleep in, or poop in. Or, you know, anything to put it in the car to bring home from the hospital. My mom dug out my old sock monkey and it looks really adorable sitting on top of the cube shelves. So there's that.
I had this kind of crazy idea that it would be really nice if we had everything in the nursery done and ready when I was 30 weeks in case something happened and I went early. And I wouldn't be so big that I could actually help put together a crib, or bend over far enough to get stuff out of the washer (this is getting tough already--having a big belly and short arms are just a terrible combination). I guess it could still happen, but given our lack of motivation this far, I'm thinking not.
Bobby had a bit of panic attack when I mentioned I'll be full term in 12 weeks. He began freaking out about everything we still need to do and get and learn. I mean, it was actually kind of funny, because that's where I was about 12 weeks ago. He actually read a chapter of a baby book that night.
Someday soon we'll get on the same page, buckle down, and get stuff done. But probably not tomorrow though. I don't want the air to freeze off my face.
You see that bright spot on Thursday? Where it's a whole 19 degrees (that's Fahrenheit, Aramis) ABOVE ZERO? I've already promised myself I will get outside and go for a walk. I could use the fresh air. And let me tell you, at 19 degrees with a 20% chance of snow, the air is pretty freaking fresh. And yes, you are correct. That little red box in the corner DOES say there's a windchill warning (FYI it's currently sitting at 35 to 45 degrees BELOW ZERO). Which means it's actually unsafe for your skin to be out in the air uncovered for even a very short amount of time. Why do I live somewhere that the air is so cold it's actually dangerous? I don't have any idea. I don't even snowmobile! Or ice fish. Or even ski very well. I need to move. Or at least take a vacation to somewhere you can't throw a pot of boiling water out the back door and have it freeze mid-air (yes, it works. Welcome to fifth grade science class in Minnesota.)
There's not much else going on around here--I mean, how much else can you really do when you have to put effort in to surviving your air. I'm feeling big and lazy. I'm washing my hands a million times a day to try to keep from getting sick. And I'm putting on hand lotion two million times a day so my hands stay all in one piece and avoid cracking and bleeding. The rest of the time I'm trying to work up to the motivation to do anything other than lie on my couch watching Netflix from the time I walk in the door after work until I go to bed at 9:00 p.m. I need a hobby. Or to join a gym. At least a few days a week, I drag my butt downstairs to half-heartedly jog (playing fast and loose with that word) on the treadmill for two episodes of 30 Rock. I know, I know, I'm practically a fitness goddess at this point. I mean, I'm not quite Jane with her half marathon and record-setting swim times (while pregnant), but I'm pretty freaking close. Notice I did say TWO episodes of 30 Rock.
I've still avoided getting stretch marks on my belly, but they are starting to show up on my boobs. Bobby's not complaining though, because my boobs have at least doubled in size. And since I haven't actually bought any bras to accommodate their enormous new mass, I'm just going for the Sofia Vergara look--if she were short, white, and chubby instead of hot and Colombian.
We also finally decided we should do something about the nursery. So we moved around some shelves in the closet and bought two cube storage shelves and some fabric box organizers. So still nothing for baby to wear, sleep in, or poop in. Or, you know, anything to put it in the car to bring home from the hospital. My mom dug out my old sock monkey and it looks really adorable sitting on top of the cube shelves. So there's that.
I had this kind of crazy idea that it would be really nice if we had everything in the nursery done and ready when I was 30 weeks in case something happened and I went early. And I wouldn't be so big that I could actually help put together a crib, or bend over far enough to get stuff out of the washer (this is getting tough already--having a big belly and short arms are just a terrible combination). I guess it could still happen, but given our lack of motivation this far, I'm thinking not.
Bobby had a bit of panic attack when I mentioned I'll be full term in 12 weeks. He began freaking out about everything we still need to do and get and learn. I mean, it was actually kind of funny, because that's where I was about 12 weeks ago. He actually read a chapter of a baby book that night.
Someday soon we'll get on the same page, buckle down, and get stuff done. But probably not tomorrow though. I don't want the air to freeze off my face.
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