About two weeks ago, I didn't just "not pass" my glucose screen, I failed it. FAILED IT. No equivocation, no borderline result, no "let's just prick your finger again, sweetie." My screen was a 183. Cut off is 135. Three hour test is Monday. Three hours. I was advised to eat less fruits, sweets, starches, carbs; in other words, enjoy to your heart's content everything you have grown to hate. Asparagus or dirt encrusted vegetable dipped in mud? Have at it! Carrots marinated in vinaigrette of cow pasture? Enjoy! I could weep. Oh, and the piece de resistance? You really should exercise more. Does walking to my car count?
The three hour test was fine until the third hour. I was lightheaded, nauseous, irritated, uncomfortable and borderline mean. I spent the last hour waiting for my blood draw in my car with the seat reclined and window cracked to get some air because the waiting room was atrocious. Small, uncomfortable and occupied by another 3 hour test dummy who went out for smokes after each blood draw. I. kid. you. not. A pregnant woman who went outside to smoke. Cigarettes. There's so much to say about that one that I'll pass. What I will say is that the after smell of the cigarettes tipped me over the edge. No exaggeration, the worst I have felt my entire pregnancy was during and after that third after.
The good news is that my results came back borderline. Of the four numbers, only one was too high. The last number was precipitously low, leading the nurse practitioner to comment "you must not have been feeling too well." On the nose, honey. So, I was instructed to cut out sweets (NOOOO), reduce fruits (NOOO), milk and yogurt, and eat only complex carbs. I asked if a time consuming recipe for pasta with cream sauce counted as a complex carb. Um, no. Oh and exercise. I get tired walking to my car.
Strangely, I continue to feel really well. Adam's room is done and I love it. Light blue, chocolate brown and cream. And the overstuffed rocker and ottoman -- chocolate brown with light blue polka dots--cute beyond cuteness.
Not long now. Not long at all.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Orthodontia
Meet my son. The son who removed his thumb from his mouth for exactly 20 seconds, which resulted in the above picture. The hand didn't move far from his face. I will be saving for his future orthodontial needs. My 30 minutes with him started with thumb firmly in mouth. His, not mine. Then fingers in mouth. Next, removal of hand and licking of arm. Then he spied his foot. I believe he thought for a few seconds about the possibility of foot in mouth, something of which his mother knows well. Finally, he smiled in the general direction of the ultrasound wand and his mother, father and grandmother melted. Thumb went back into mouth.I now know why women are blind and dumb when it comes to their children. I think he's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. And the smartest. And funniest....
Sunday, June 14, 2009
MIA and TKO
Forgive me Internet, for I have sinned. Not only has it been weeks and weeks since my last update, I have no justifiable and excusable excuse other than WORK IS KILLING ME. Last week, I flew to Oklahoma City for a meeting from Tuesday - Friday, then Friday morning to Chicago, then home Friday night. Emergency at work right after landing. Home late. Pizza ordered. Alas, no pleasures involved in these excursions. No massages, pedicures, shoe shopping. No leisurely dinners in fine dining establishments and side trips to areas of interest. Work, yes just work. The girl is tired. Stress levels still ok (how is that even remotely possible???), but physically tired. Drained. Ready to take that brass ring and shove it up...
The good news is that my Little A is a trooper. He's kicking and punching and hanging out like a little champ. At one of my more contentious meetings last week, I swear he was giving me the universal sign of peace and humming "Give peace a chance." Tie dye onesies coming up. I have an ultrasound on Thursday and I'm over the moon to see what's happening. Actually, I'm more anxious to check out his environs. I feel certain that he's hung up a disco ball, playing twister and throwing back amniotic martinis. I like this kid. And I feel really good. No swelling, no real uncomfortableness, sleeping great. My only complaint is a week or two ago I had some slicing pain in my neck and shoulders, but heat wraps and hot showers have taken care of it. I attribute it to tension.
E and I went on the "Expectant Parents Hospital Tour." Our nurse guide referred to the group as "mommies and daddies." She demonstrated the squat bar and explained--in detail--the births of her five children at this very hospital, can you believe it, this. very. hospital. Oh, and all natural births by the way. My observation that a natural birth was any exit of a baby from a womb absent lures of baby ferraris and counterfeit $100 bills met with silence. We left shortly thereafter, but we do know where to check in. I haven't taken any birthing classes, which I was ambivalent about to begin with. I feel certain I can swing it without having to sit through class every Thursday from 5:30 to 8pm. Famous last words probably.
I am just so excited to meet this kid. I attribute a lot, most, all (?) of my relative calm these days to him and keeping him safe and protected. And knowing that my responsibility is his well being. It's put the rest of my life in perspective, I think. Work may be stressful and busy and maddening at times, but it's not the most important gig I've got going these days. I've got my Little A.
Almost 30 weeks and counting.
The good news is that my Little A is a trooper. He's kicking and punching and hanging out like a little champ. At one of my more contentious meetings last week, I swear he was giving me the universal sign of peace and humming "Give peace a chance." Tie dye onesies coming up. I have an ultrasound on Thursday and I'm over the moon to see what's happening. Actually, I'm more anxious to check out his environs. I feel certain that he's hung up a disco ball, playing twister and throwing back amniotic martinis. I like this kid. And I feel really good. No swelling, no real uncomfortableness, sleeping great. My only complaint is a week or two ago I had some slicing pain in my neck and shoulders, but heat wraps and hot showers have taken care of it. I attribute it to tension.
E and I went on the "Expectant Parents Hospital Tour." Our nurse guide referred to the group as "mommies and daddies." She demonstrated the squat bar and explained--in detail--the births of her five children at this very hospital, can you believe it, this. very. hospital. Oh, and all natural births by the way. My observation that a natural birth was any exit of a baby from a womb absent lures of baby ferraris and counterfeit $100 bills met with silence. We left shortly thereafter, but we do know where to check in. I haven't taken any birthing classes, which I was ambivalent about to begin with. I feel certain I can swing it without having to sit through class every Thursday from 5:30 to 8pm. Famous last words probably.
I am just so excited to meet this kid. I attribute a lot, most, all (?) of my relative calm these days to him and keeping him safe and protected. And knowing that my responsibility is his well being. It's put the rest of my life in perspective, I think. Work may be stressful and busy and maddening at times, but it's not the most important gig I've got going these days. I've got my Little A.
Almost 30 weeks and counting.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Best Laid Plans
My plans, giggle, for this pregnancy were to take it easy. Certainly to maintain the full load I always have at work, but also to take time for myself, take a full three months maternity leave, transition back in, etc. In short, to relish in my role as a #2 at work...to thank the lucky stars that my wildest professional dreams hadn't yet been answered and I'm not the key decisionmaker. My corner office dreams were relegated to the corner closet. For a while.
Ah, best laid plans.
Now it turns out the big job is dangling right there. In fact, I'm Acting Holder of Big Job ("AHBJ") for the next 30-45 days. Completely out of the blue, due to exceedingly uncomfortable circumstances, but nonetheless, I've got a 45 day dress rehearsal for the Big Job. In the interest of full disclosure, I'm a close second to the front runner, an exceptionally talented (and likable) woman who's been promised a top job for several years. I've got the advantage in other ways, but I've still got to stretch to get this. I'm exhilarated, excited, nervous and, yes, a little pissed off. Of all the %$#@ times in my professional life to have the opportunity to reach for the brass ring, I've got my miraculous, belly kicking love affair on board and my stomach makes stretching for that oh so ellusive brass ring a bit awkward and unwieldy. Yes, yes, it's true that I've already got the brass ring doing jumping jacks inside me, but the other part of me, a big part, a part that must be nourished and fed and cared for too, needs to see how far she can go because that's who she is.
I'm exceptionally blessed that I've felt really, really good this pregnancy. And I continue to feel good. Surprisingly, I haven't felt overwhelmed or stressed. I've felt, feel, energized. And I'm trying to put this all into perspective. That either way, it will work out. If I get the Big Job, I'll be the first woman to have reached that post at my company. If I don't, I'll still have a satisfying career, a shot at the Big Job later and more time. I'll be disappointed, yes, but the gig I've got now ain't a bad one.
I have very much simplified what's going on and have probably, well certainly, glossed over my feelings about everything. I haven't simplified my feelings of calm though. If this had happened a year ago, I would have been stressed to the limits of human endurance. I'm not. I have never been happier in my life. Never. And it's not because of AHBJ. In fact, AHBJ is significantly less of a miracle than my Little A. Maybe it's because of Little A that I think anything's possible and that everything's achievable, everything being, I hope, the grace to accept whatever comes.
Best laid plans.
P.S. I will save the story of assembling the changing table last weekend for later. The changing table with 14 pages of instructions in Spanish and 4 ziploc bags containing a motley assortment of metal and wood thingies. I will also skip over the slamming of part A into my tender head which likely resulted in a concussion of which I haven't yet recovered, contributing to my unusually calm state of mind. But I'll save that for later.
Ah, best laid plans.
Now it turns out the big job is dangling right there. In fact, I'm Acting Holder of Big Job ("AHBJ") for the next 30-45 days. Completely out of the blue, due to exceedingly uncomfortable circumstances, but nonetheless, I've got a 45 day dress rehearsal for the Big Job. In the interest of full disclosure, I'm a close second to the front runner, an exceptionally talented (and likable) woman who's been promised a top job for several years. I've got the advantage in other ways, but I've still got to stretch to get this. I'm exhilarated, excited, nervous and, yes, a little pissed off. Of all the %$#@ times in my professional life to have the opportunity to reach for the brass ring, I've got my miraculous, belly kicking love affair on board and my stomach makes stretching for that oh so ellusive brass ring a bit awkward and unwieldy. Yes, yes, it's true that I've already got the brass ring doing jumping jacks inside me, but the other part of me, a big part, a part that must be nourished and fed and cared for too, needs to see how far she can go because that's who she is.
I'm exceptionally blessed that I've felt really, really good this pregnancy. And I continue to feel good. Surprisingly, I haven't felt overwhelmed or stressed. I've felt, feel, energized. And I'm trying to put this all into perspective. That either way, it will work out. If I get the Big Job, I'll be the first woman to have reached that post at my company. If I don't, I'll still have a satisfying career, a shot at the Big Job later and more time. I'll be disappointed, yes, but the gig I've got now ain't a bad one.
I have very much simplified what's going on and have probably, well certainly, glossed over my feelings about everything. I haven't simplified my feelings of calm though. If this had happened a year ago, I would have been stressed to the limits of human endurance. I'm not. I have never been happier in my life. Never. And it's not because of AHBJ. In fact, AHBJ is significantly less of a miracle than my Little A. Maybe it's because of Little A that I think anything's possible and that everything's achievable, everything being, I hope, the grace to accept whatever comes.
Best laid plans.
P.S. I will save the story of assembling the changing table last weekend for later. The changing table with 14 pages of instructions in Spanish and 4 ziploc bags containing a motley assortment of metal and wood thingies. I will also skip over the slamming of part A into my tender head which likely resulted in a concussion of which I haven't yet recovered, contributing to my unusually calm state of mind. But I'll save that for later.
Monday, April 27, 2009
First Saturday in May
Around these parts, the first Saturday in May is a big deal. Fast horses and beautiful women. Fast women and beautiful horses. Mint juleps. Trifectas. And....hats. Big, over the top, match the dress to the hat, hats. My hat last Derby was so big I strained my neck. Because I'm a trooper (and my shoes matched my hat), I continued to wear the hat, just drank more to compensate. I love hats. Others' opinions notwithstanding, hats love me.
Until this year.
I will not be wearing a hat to the Kentucky Derby. I make this decision last weekend while posing in front of my mirror donning one of my favorite hats from yesteryear. I looked like a flying knocked up nun, a mushroom that had swallowed a dung beetle...I looked silly. I wonder if I will have to enter the track through the "non hat wearers" door, located so far on the backside that the powers that be hope you'll give up in frustration and go home to watch the races on TV? It's a sad story, I know.
In other news, the issue of "showers" has arisen. I'm very flattered and touched that dear friends and family have offered to throw me baby showers, but the thought of a shower makes me feel twitchy and itchy and rash-like. It would be different I suppose if I weren't 39 years old and not already scarred by the endless Saturday afternoons I gave up to guess the diaper containing the tootsie roll. E thinks I'm nuts, but this is the same man who wouldn't have to attend and count tootsie rolls and also believes that people give you cribs or free college educations at these events. Silly, silly man.
So, I'm holding firm. No showers. Especially the dreaded work shower, though for different reasons. I work with a bunch of male lawyers, and support staff and paralegals who are primarily women. The bunch of male lawyers part speaks for itself. And, as wonderful as the support staff and paralegals are, I can't bear the thought of them spending their money on me. Economically, times are tough and it's just not right to put people in the position where they feel compelled to contribute, so no work shower. I will take the bakery cake with lots of icing though. The men can pony up for that.
Until this year.
I will not be wearing a hat to the Kentucky Derby. I make this decision last weekend while posing in front of my mirror donning one of my favorite hats from yesteryear. I looked like a flying knocked up nun, a mushroom that had swallowed a dung beetle...I looked silly. I wonder if I will have to enter the track through the "non hat wearers" door, located so far on the backside that the powers that be hope you'll give up in frustration and go home to watch the races on TV? It's a sad story, I know.
In other news, the issue of "showers" has arisen. I'm very flattered and touched that dear friends and family have offered to throw me baby showers, but the thought of a shower makes me feel twitchy and itchy and rash-like. It would be different I suppose if I weren't 39 years old and not already scarred by the endless Saturday afternoons I gave up to guess the diaper containing the tootsie roll. E thinks I'm nuts, but this is the same man who wouldn't have to attend and count tootsie rolls and also believes that people give you cribs or free college educations at these events. Silly, silly man.
So, I'm holding firm. No showers. Especially the dreaded work shower, though for different reasons. I work with a bunch of male lawyers, and support staff and paralegals who are primarily women. The bunch of male lawyers part speaks for itself. And, as wonderful as the support staff and paralegals are, I can't bear the thought of them spending their money on me. Economically, times are tough and it's just not right to put people in the position where they feel compelled to contribute, so no work shower. I will take the bakery cake with lots of icing though. The men can pony up for that.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
A typical visit to the Ob
Scene 1, Act 1.
Nurse: Please get on the scale.
Melanie: Ok, I will get on the scale, but I would like it noted in my file there that I just had lunch.
Nurse: Duly noted.
Melanie: So deduct 5 pounds. I've got on heavy clothing too, so better make it 6.
Nurse: silence
Melanie: And I mean it, I don't want you to tell me my weight. And don't write the number really big so that when I try to read it upside down I can't.
Nurse. Ok
Melanie: Oh, and don't leave the file where I can get it. Because I'll read it and I don't want to know.
Nurse: Get on the scale.
Melanie: Ok.
Act 2, Scene 1.
Pleasantries exchanged with doctor. Fetal heart tone identified. Fundal height measurement noted. Doctor prepares to leave.
Melanie: Hey, where are you going? You haven't told me anything...
Doctor: Everything looks great. See you in four weeks.
Melanie: Four weeks? Well, wait. Let me see what you've written down there, but, eww, wait, I don't want to see my weight.
Melanie reviews chart with doctor's hand covering the weight section.
Melanie: You know I had a big lunch before this appointment, so that weight, whatever it is, isn't technically correct.
Doctor: silence
Melanie: Anyway, so fundal height's ok?
Doctor: Yes.
Melanie: Um, heart rate sounded a little fast. You know, kind of like the old Lone Ranger series. Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum daa Dum Dum....
Doctor: Heart rate's fine.
Melanie: So what else do I need to know? Anything?
Doctor: Really, everything's fine. See you in four weeks.
Melanie: Wait, shouldn't you be scheduling me for an ultrasound before then?
Doctor: Why do you need an ultrasound?
Melanie: (thinking to herself, Why wouldn't I? Duh.)
Melanie: It's been awhile. What if he's grown another limb? He could have learned how to make obscene hand gestures since the last one ultrasound. It's best to correct these behaviors young, you know.
Doctor: silence
Melanie: We won't know anything until we take a peak.
Melanie: Oh, come on.
Doctor: (Rolls eyes) See you in four weeks.
The end.
Nurse: Please get on the scale.
Melanie: Ok, I will get on the scale, but I would like it noted in my file there that I just had lunch.
Nurse: Duly noted.
Melanie: So deduct 5 pounds. I've got on heavy clothing too, so better make it 6.
Nurse: silence
Melanie: And I mean it, I don't want you to tell me my weight. And don't write the number really big so that when I try to read it upside down I can't.
Nurse. Ok
Melanie: Oh, and don't leave the file where I can get it. Because I'll read it and I don't want to know.
Nurse: Get on the scale.
Melanie: Ok.
Act 2, Scene 1.
Pleasantries exchanged with doctor. Fetal heart tone identified. Fundal height measurement noted. Doctor prepares to leave.
Melanie: Hey, where are you going? You haven't told me anything...
Doctor: Everything looks great. See you in four weeks.
Melanie: Four weeks? Well, wait. Let me see what you've written down there, but, eww, wait, I don't want to see my weight.
Melanie reviews chart with doctor's hand covering the weight section.
Melanie: You know I had a big lunch before this appointment, so that weight, whatever it is, isn't technically correct.
Doctor: silence
Melanie: Anyway, so fundal height's ok?
Doctor: Yes.
Melanie: Um, heart rate sounded a little fast. You know, kind of like the old Lone Ranger series. Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum daa Dum Dum....
Doctor: Heart rate's fine.
Melanie: So what else do I need to know? Anything?
Doctor: Really, everything's fine. See you in four weeks.
Melanie: Wait, shouldn't you be scheduling me for an ultrasound before then?
Doctor: Why do you need an ultrasound?
Melanie: (thinking to herself, Why wouldn't I? Duh.)
Melanie: It's been awhile. What if he's grown another limb? He could have learned how to make obscene hand gestures since the last one ultrasound. It's best to correct these behaviors young, you know.
Doctor: silence
Melanie: We won't know anything until we take a peak.
Melanie: Oh, come on.
Doctor: (Rolls eyes) See you in four weeks.
The end.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Eww, eww, eww, call on me, I know the answer..
Q: When does the fear subside?
A: Never
Sigh.
I'm a devotee of milestones; a follower of "just get to point A" then, B, then C; a staunch believer in "just make it to X, then worry about Y." I haven't abandoned my cartography tendencies this pregnancy (yes, this, my only sustaining pregnancy). At first, it was the peesticks. Let them stay positive, double pink lines, a flashing "pregnant." Check. Then the beta. Let it be high. High and strong. Higher than my first failed pregnancy. Ok, next the ultrasound. Before December 2008, I'd never been invited to an ultrasound (my own, that is) which featured more than follicles, lining checks and ovaries. Let this one have, oh I dunno, a sac? Fetal pole? A beating heart. Oh please, a heartbeat. Two? Bliss.
Setback one. Only one beating heart at 7 weeks five days. It's ok. Little A is still strong. It's not unusual to lose a twin early on. I have my Little A. Now I need to get past that most magical of all pregnancy milestones...the first trimester. Much hand wringing. Multiple ultrasounds. And, on a wing and a prayer, we make it to 13 weeks. Whew. Next up: level one ultrasound, first sequential, triple screen, second sequential, quad screen, level two ultrasound. Movement, please give me fetal movement. Ah, movement. And then we got here...almost 22 weeks.
So at what point do I get to relax? When do I get to settle in with the certainty that this little life is going to keep on living? Will I be peeing on sticks as we drive to the hospital? Last night for example, my Little A was kicking up a storm. This morning, I've felt a few little nudges but no fetal gymnastics. Am I worried? Do I find myself poking my stomach and searching out month old chocolate to prod the child into action? Hell yes. Do I drive to the ob's office to have a visit with the doppler? Hell to the yes to that too. And what does my Little A do when I get in the car to go back to work...kicks up a storm. Sort of a "I am the boss of you, mortal" gesture.
On another note, I had a funny conversation with someone at work the other day. She said to me "so have you told your husband what present you'd like for giving birth?" I was stunned into silence. Not because the woman had asked something inappropriate, but because of the utter absurdity of the thought as it applied to my life. A present for giving birth? If I make it to birth, I will have been given the most astoundingly miraculous, magical bestowal of my existence. A bestowal that was over two years in the making and sheathed in tears and sadness and uncertainty and finally, unimaginable joy. And though it pains my soul to say this (as a girl who's inordinately fond of things that sparkle) no material object in the world is suitable to commemorate the, please oh please, birth of my Little A. Present, indeed. (I guess I need not point out that it cost a Mercedes to even get to this point.)
A: Never
Sigh.
I'm a devotee of milestones; a follower of "just get to point A" then, B, then C; a staunch believer in "just make it to X, then worry about Y." I haven't abandoned my cartography tendencies this pregnancy (yes, this, my only sustaining pregnancy). At first, it was the peesticks. Let them stay positive, double pink lines, a flashing "pregnant." Check. Then the beta. Let it be high. High and strong. Higher than my first failed pregnancy. Ok, next the ultrasound. Before December 2008, I'd never been invited to an ultrasound (my own, that is) which featured more than follicles, lining checks and ovaries. Let this one have, oh I dunno, a sac? Fetal pole? A beating heart. Oh please, a heartbeat. Two? Bliss.
Setback one. Only one beating heart at 7 weeks five days. It's ok. Little A is still strong. It's not unusual to lose a twin early on. I have my Little A. Now I need to get past that most magical of all pregnancy milestones...the first trimester. Much hand wringing. Multiple ultrasounds. And, on a wing and a prayer, we make it to 13 weeks. Whew. Next up: level one ultrasound, first sequential, triple screen, second sequential, quad screen, level two ultrasound. Movement, please give me fetal movement. Ah, movement. And then we got here...almost 22 weeks.
So at what point do I get to relax? When do I get to settle in with the certainty that this little life is going to keep on living? Will I be peeing on sticks as we drive to the hospital? Last night for example, my Little A was kicking up a storm. This morning, I've felt a few little nudges but no fetal gymnastics. Am I worried? Do I find myself poking my stomach and searching out month old chocolate to prod the child into action? Hell yes. Do I drive to the ob's office to have a visit with the doppler? Hell to the yes to that too. And what does my Little A do when I get in the car to go back to work...kicks up a storm. Sort of a "I am the boss of you, mortal" gesture.
On another note, I had a funny conversation with someone at work the other day. She said to me "so have you told your husband what present you'd like for giving birth?" I was stunned into silence. Not because the woman had asked something inappropriate, but because of the utter absurdity of the thought as it applied to my life. A present for giving birth? If I make it to birth, I will have been given the most astoundingly miraculous, magical bestowal of my existence. A bestowal that was over two years in the making and sheathed in tears and sadness and uncertainty and finally, unimaginable joy. And though it pains my soul to say this (as a girl who's inordinately fond of things that sparkle) no material object in the world is suitable to commemorate the, please oh please, birth of my Little A. Present, indeed. (I guess I need not point out that it cost a Mercedes to even get to this point.)
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