Birth of a Mommy

Although I read about the recovery of child birth in all my parenting books and websites, it's still been extremely challenging.  In fact, I would say the recovery has been harder than the labor itself. 
Immediately after Penelope was born Danny and I were starving and exhausted.  We hadn't slept or eaten in 24 hours and had just gone through the biggest, most important, beautiful and hardest ordeal of our lives.  Two nurses came in with a wheelchair to take me to use the bathroom.  Weak and tired,  and seeing all the blood  I started to warn them I was feeling dizzy.  I must have passed out because when I came to there were 10 nurses bustling around calling out to each other, poking me, asking me questions.  They wheeled me back into the room and Danny was pale with worry, standing close to the baby.  My glasses were askew and the ponytail I'd had since before birth was half undone. He told me later I was smiling like a mental patient.  In my mind I was trying to smile to reassure him that I was fine.  But apparently it wasn't a very reassuring picture.
That night we didn't get to catch up on any of our rest.  Penelope did cry a bit, she was confused and cold and I imagine really hated gravity.  But the real issue was the hospital staff coming in once or more an hour to check on us, take blood sugars, blood pressure, give shots and ask us the same questions over and over again. 
When day broke we were finally drifting off to sleep, and I was trying to breastfeed when that same awkward medical student guy came in to ask more questions.  "heh.  hi.  How.  heh.. um, how are you feeling?" he started.  I tried to smile and whisper so as not to wake up Danny who had finally passed out on his cot.  "I see.. you are ..heh.  you're breastfeeding." he commented awkwardly amid the questions.
For two days we got terrible hospital food, and the same repeated questions with each nurse starting her next shift.  When we were finally released from hospital jail, I was wheeled out of the hospital to the van where Jack and Angela were giving us a ride.  To  their horror, and my amusement, after we piled in, the van wouldn't start.  Jack and Angela were so apologetic and embarrassed, but it really was very funny.  A storm was brewing outside and I knew I didn't want to take this new baby in a taxi cab.  Fortunately, someone at the hospital gave us a jump start and we made it home laughing at our luck and taking pictures of our new baby in her first car ride. 
When I walked into our apartment, the place had been cleaned and a sign welcoming the baby hung off the chair that her grandma had made for her.  There was a tall chocolate cake frosted, a bag of Godiva chocolates and some champagne in the fridge- all due to my amazing mommy in law.  I felt elated, shocked, happy and also sore, confused, overwhelmed and scared.  Who was I now?  I knew I was being reborn as a new person, but it was still unclear who that new person was and how she was going to manage to care for such a tiny, perfect, frail little girl.
Over the past two weeks I've had many meltdowns.  Maybe on average- one a day.  I start to cry, either for no reason or because I'm so sore on so many parts of me.  For days I felt like I'd gotten into a bad hockey fight.  The only part of me that wasn't sore was my face, though, so maybe hockey is a bad analogy.
While I knew breastfeeding would be challenging, I never realized how much time it takes.  I mean it's pretty much all I do.  At first, I was so sore, every time she'd cry with hunger, I'd deny it.  "No!" I'd tell my family when they'd hold her out toward me, "She's not hungry! She's not! I just fed her! She just wants to sleep.  Make her sleep!" "No", they'd shake their heads, gently "She's sucking on her hand."
But while it still takes up the majority of my time, leaves me and the baby covered in milk, requires both of us a lot of costume changes, and demands careful planning even to limp down the street to get an iced decaf, it really has gotten easier. 
At baby P's first Dr. appointment they weighed her and told us her weight was already picking up.  "The breastfeeding must be going great!" The pediatrician said.  "Wheatever you guys are doing, keep it up!"  This assurance strengthened me and has helped me keep going, making it through the roughest patch.
A few days after birth I got some sort of pregnancy/new mom rash that hits 1 out of every 200 women.  Tiny itchy hives covered my stomach, arms and legs.  They prescribed two tiny tubes of steroid cream which I used that same day.  My refill isn't good for another 5 days!  But these hives are starting to go down.
I won't go into the details of the main source of soreness, but all I want to do is go see the light of day and walk outside, and I really can only make it for a few minutes before I have to hobble home and lay on the couch.  They really need to make a stroller for new moms.  Then Danny could push us both around.
Through all of these pains, getting to know my daughter and myself as a mom has fueled me forward and given me so much joy.  So far Penelope rarely cries, sleeps a lot (sometimes five hours at night!) and on the rare occasions when she's awake and not eating, looks around with curiosity and hangs on our every word.  When she sleeps she goes through a range of entertaining facial expressions, sometimes even a smile, which she has yet to do awake.  She makes these really cute noises- sometimes like a gremlin, sometimes like a cat or a bird calling.  She moves her arms and hands like she's trying to stir a batter or put a spell on us.  Yesterday at 5 in the morning I was explaining to her my limited knowledge of the sun and moon.  These moments are so precious and perfect it hurts to know that they're also fleeting and that we'll look back on these times and wish we could relive them.
Adding to the list of my sore parts you can add my heart, it feels like it might burst sometimes.

Sharks and Giving Birth

Before I gave birth my two biggest fears were sharks and giving birth.  I am proud to say that I've faced the second fear and can honestly say sharks are probably worse.
June 26th I started to get a new kind of contraction-- they didnt feel like the Braxton Hicks/false contractions (or "Carlton Banks" contractions, as Danny named them) I'd been feeling for the past few weeks-- these ones were different-- not painful but "uncomfortable"-- I was calling them, because I knew only once I was in the throes of labor would I understand true pain.  These new contractions would last a second, or 15 seconds and then would vanish.  But by that night they started to come every 12 minutes and always lasted 1 minute.  I started writing down the times for each one, pacing for the minute long contraction and then lying down in bed again.  I tried not to disturb Danny who slept peacefully.  But when I was getting out of bed at around 5, he woke up.  "You've been up all night??"  He was alarmed, jumping out of bed.  But we knew we weren't supposed to go to the hospital until the contractions were 4 minutes apart for an hour.  So we got out of bed, continued to time the contractions, and Danny started nesting-- racing around the apartment cleaning toilets, wiping counters, mopping floors.
After a few hours they were about 8 or 9 minutes apart and now were stronger.  I started to get a little fearful, realizing that the slow yoga breathing I'd been practicing wasn't.. well it wasn't going to do shit to help me once these started coming quicker and harder.  I'd always planned on going for a walk during this early labor stage, like the couples in the birth videos we watched in our class.  We walked to the Jewel Osco, but it was a painful journey and just went immediately home. Danny called to alert Angela-- my other labor coach, so she could make the five hour journey from Michigan. 
By this time the contractions felt strong, and instead of deep breathing I was breathing in through  my nose and out with a sustained vocal moan. "Ahhhhh.."  Yes, it sounded a bit insane, but it was the only thing I could do.  On the return home from the store I had to lean against a brick apartment building breathing out the slow 'Ahhh'.  Danny later told me the window to that apartment was open.  I picture now the residents of this building at 7 or 8 am going about their business when a large pregnant woman leans against their home moaning and then walking along.
By 9:30 they were 4 minutes apart and very intense.  The pain was strong in my back and Danny would massage for the minute of the contraction and I would let out my sustained vocal 'ahh'.  When we called the doctor- (Dr. Favorite was on call!!!)- she seemed skeptical.  "This is your first, right?" She asked, unsure if I was ready to go to the hospital.  Her doubt made us think we should wait.  So at about 11:30, they had been going strong four minutes apart for 2 hours, we decided to go to the hospital.
Our plan had been to take a taxi, since we dont have a car.  We knew Danny's parents would be driving us back from the hospital with the carseat, so we just had to take our suitcase and hop in a cab.  Although at this point I realized I didnt feel like doing my sustained "ahhs" in a wild cab ride.  And what if my water broke in the backseat? I know Chicago cabs charge $50 for vomit, what was the amniotic fluid charge?
So we booked a zip car and Danny ran to pick it up.  I walked down the hall of my apartment, with my sustained moaning, and we drove to the hospital, with more sustained moaning.  Danny dropped me at the door and sped off to park the car, and I made it through the elevator ride to the maternity waiting room, sustained moaning every four minutes despite the looks of the surrounding strangers.  After a check, they found I was dilated to five, so I didnt have to go home, as we'd heard so many others have done when they found out they weren't ready for hospital care. 
Before they wheeled me into the room where I would labor, deliver and then stay in for the duration of the care, an awkward gangly young man came in.  Looking highly uncomfortable, as if he'd been given lines to memorize and recite in front of an audience of hungry bears he stood at the end of my bed and tried to ask me questions.  'uhm.. hi, heh..I am a medical student and i'm here to ask a few heh.. questions' his stunted questions were punctuated with uncomfortable giggles.  'have you had any complications. uhm.  during this pregnancy?' he would ask, trying to smile.  Even though the contractions were very strong now, as I was dilated to 7, I tried to be kind and respectful and answer his questions without irritation.  In the middle of one a contraction came on and i started my sustained moaning- which by this time was a little louder and more desperate.  Danny went into what was by now our established routine-- he would massage my lower back and count down the contraction, cheering me on with encouragement, "you can do it, honey, you're doing great! 40 more seconds! 30 more seconds, you're halfway there!"  (Later he confessed he was just making up the times, but it was what got me through all the contractions).  Through my half shut eyes I saw the young medical student standing in the same spot, frozen, looking even more frightened and uncomfortable.  Why was he still there?  The contraction ended and I took a deep breath.  He stood, trying to keep the weird smile on his face, staring at me.  'Ok. What else?' I asked him.
By 5 pm I was hooked up to an epidural catheter, had two IVs in each hand- one with insulin-- my blood sugar got out of control when I didn't eat all day.  Jack and Angela had arrived and we were all waiting for the baby to drop as I was dilated to 10.  We watched my contractions on the computer monitor next to me, noticing when they were strong and smiling because I couldn't feel them.
At 7 they came in and said it was time to push.  By this time I was feeling very exhausted.  I hadn't eaten or slept in 24 hours.  Dr. Favorite came in to tell me how it would go.   They told me we'd push three times for every contraction.  "You're my favorite." I told her.
Danny and Angela each held one of my legs and like cheerleaders on the sidelines, delivered encouragement.  Between each push I tried to take a 30 second nap.  Then their cheers started to get more excited as they saw her coming.  I was so tired and my eyes were closed through most of the pushing and the resting between.  But 45 minutes later our baby was born. 
I'd always imagined they'd throw her on my chest, covered in goo, but in my hazy memory Danny kissed me, his eyes with tears, they offered him the chord to cut and then they rushed the baby to a warmer next to my bed and started conducting tests, suctioning out fluid from her lungs, trying to get her to cry and then giving her a bath. 
Meanwhile, three doctors-- two of whom were more medical students-- hung out around me for the last stage of labor.  Dr. Favorite was teaching them how to deliver the placenta and then stitch up the tears.  At this point I was so ready for it to be over I think I was getting a little snotty.  "does this hurt?" they were asking me.  "No, it doesn't hurt, but I got three people peering into my crotch, so it's not exactly comfortable." I was saying between demands to hold my baby.
I always imagined when she finally came out, and I heard her cry I would break down into an emotional mess, I would feel the significance of the whole world-- I'd feel one with all women who'd given birth.  Instead, though, I felt very sleepy and irritated that three doctors were still hovering around my private parts, forcing me keep my legs open for too long. 
But in the days following, and now, over a week later, I feel total awe and shock when I stare at my baby.  I can't believe how perfect and beautiful she is.  And how lucky I am to have had such an uncomplicated delivery. For the past 9 months I've been gifted by/subjected to the birth stories of almost every mother whose noticed my bulging belly-- stranger or not.  And now I finally have my own.

Dr. Poop

My OB-GYN practice has four doctors.  Depending on when my labor progresses for delivery, any of the four doctors who happens to be on call at that time will be the doctor to deliver.  So the office policy is for the pregnant patient to meet with 3 of the 4 doctors so we can feel comfortable and familiar with  them all.  (The fourth doctor is a mysterious man from Poland who they say is never in the office and so I won't meet unless he wins the delivery lotto).

I love my doctor.  I've been going to her since I moved to Chicago six years ago.  Other than one incident where she decided to bring up the priest molestation scandals arm deep during an exam, I had never had one negative incident with her.     But she is scheduled in the mornings, and we've been saving our paid time off of work and going in the afternoons.
Of the two remaining-- one has grown on me-- the other, for the sake of anonymity and respect-- I will call Dr. Poop.

We've had three apointments with Dr. Poop.  At first, Danny and I were impressed.  She seemed compassionate and thorough, taking measurements that the other doctors hadn't.  She didnt seem as rushed or robotic as the other (non favorite) doctor.  But at the second apointment we changed our minds.  The compassion seemed more like phoniness or condescension, and the thorough measurements hurt.  At this time, the other doctors started taking some of the same measurements but when they performed them, they didnt hurt me.  Then I started noticing where the other doctor seemed robotic- was really just her being professional.  And where she seemed rushed was just being upbeat and enthusiastic.

In Dr. Poop's defense, I could also have some negative psychological associations with her- she's the one who told me initially that I needed to take the second diabetes screening.  She's also the one who wouldn't make time to see me when I was in some pain, which turned out to be a cyst which ruptured at home.  And she's also the one who has put the most emphasis on my weight.  Once she said, "I'm just a liiiiiitle teeny bit concerned with your weight." She held up a finger and a thumb to the size of a delicious Starburst which I wouldnt be able to eat again for the remainder of the pregnancy.  She said it the way you'd speak to a child about their behavior.  "Well, little Becky, I'm just a liiiiitle teeny bit concerned about you never wearing pants at the dinner table..."  I looked down embarassed.  "yes, I know." I knew I'd been letting myself eat whatever sounded good.  Instead of salads for lunch I was eating big puffy bready sandwiches with melted cheese.  I was eating chocolate fudge sundaes at night and ham and cheese omeletes for breakfast.
"So what are you eating?" She asked.  I sighed.  "I dunno...carbs or something." I just wanted the conversation to end.  I'd cut back, I silently vowed, just please dont lecture.  "What kind of carbs?" she pressed, transporting us to a courtroom scene in an episode of Law and Order.  She was the prosecutor cross examining the defense.  I was the young woman about to break her web of lies and confess that yes, she'd been eating gyros and pizzas every Thursday at Michael's bar.  "uh.. crackers?" I suggested, my face red.  "hmmm.. well, maybe instead of 'crackers' you could eat...broccoli?" She glanced at Danny and shrugged as if to say, "I dont know how else to help this sad case of obesity"  She turned to me, "It's crunchy.." She offered as incentive. 

So when I scheduled my apointment last week, and switched to a Thursday because of a work meeting, and the receptionist told me it was with Dr. Poop, I didnt want to be rude and obvious and change it as soon as I heard which doctor it would be with.  Instead, I thought, maybe she's not as bad as I remember. 

But yesterday, Dr. Poop started off on the wrong foot.  Every week they have me hooked up to an NST test to monitor the baby's movements.  The test measures heartrate and makes sure baby's moving enough and that her heartrate excelerates at the appropriate times.  Well, for the first time in probably this whole week, baby sweet Pea decided she wanted to take a nap and only move a few times.  So we were hooked up for double the time.  In order to stimulate movement Dr. Poop called out to the nurse-- "Get her some water! And some chocolate!"  CHOCOLATE??? I perked up excitedly-- Doctor's orders, right?? She glanced at me and remembered,
"oh, wait you have gestational diabetes, right? Nevermind."  In my mind I shook my fist at her as she walked away. 

The test turned out fine, just had to poke and prod poor baby P for a few minutes to get her to angrily kick her little limbs enough.  Then it was on to the examination room.

I was a little nervous that Dr. Poop would be a little rough with the exam, since just measuring my abdomen seemed to hurt with her.  And unfortunately I was right.  I'll spare you the details but she wasn't quick about it.  Instead she was very thoughtful as she lingered and felt around giving me a play by play of texture and detail.  Danny theorized she was trying to figure out what type of salad I'd eaten for lunch earlier that day.

When Dr. Secondfavorite reviews my blood sugar scores she always tells me "These look great! Keep doing exactly what you're doing!"  Whereas Dr. Poop frowned and bit her lip in contrived worry and said "They're not terrible. ."   
"There were two high scores here this week." She continued "It may have been something you ate before bed. Do you eat before bed?" The gestational diabetes diet calls for a bedtime snack. 
"Yes, but I've had the same snack every time, it's just cereal."  (Cereal that I literally use a measuring cup to carefully dose out). 
"What kind of cereal?" And we were back at the Law and Order interrogation. 
"Bran flakes." I tried to remain calm and not scream my answers.  I've had to go over everything I eat with both a Diabetes educator and a nutritionist. 
"What kind of milk?" she asked. 
"Unsweetened almond milk, it has no carbs." I said impatiently.
Maybe she sensed my agony because she moved on.  "Well, sometimes toward the end of the pregnancy the numbers will go up for no reason.  We'll just keep watching it."  OHHHHHHH--Should we? I didn't realize this whole time while I've been counting out my wheat thins to dip into my 35 calorie low fat cheese, and staring at blueberry muffins, moving my mouth in pantomime chewing that I should be "watching it".  The four times a day I prick my finger and write down the score and scrutinize every strawberry I eat doesn't qualify as "watching it".
"Any questions?" Dr. Poop smiled cheerfully.  "No..don't think so.." Danny and I glanced at each other and shrugged.  "Are you sure?" Dr. Poop prodded.  "Because I feel like you have questions but you're not answering."
"Nope, we're good." I said.
Then Dr. Poop was suddenly filled with concern.
"Are you okay? You seem.....sad...is everything okay?" 
"Yeah, I'm just tired," I said, irritated.  She seemed unconvinced but moved on to the ultrasound.  I tried to ask questions during the ultra sound so I wouldn't seem so sad, but she didn't seem to want to answer. "What's that?" I pointed at a shadowy blog on the monitor of the ultra sound machine thingy.  "Just fluid." she said dismissively.  "Okay," I said, giving up.
She seemed to feel bad about not answering in more detail so she focused in on a body part.  "Do you see this? Did you know it's a girl?" she said smiling.  Looking back, I wished I'd jumped up startled and hurt, "WE WANTED TO BE SURPRISED!" I should have shouted, using all my acting training to squeeze some tears out.  But instead we just smiled, and said yes. 
"Here, I'll print a picture!" she said excited, and printed a picture of our daughter's genitals.  Is that weird to anyone else?  (Also weird is that in the picture our daughter's genitals look like a seagull)  I'll treasure any picture of our baby, but maybe a facial profile or a hand or foot might be more baby-book-appropriate...
Finally the appointment was complete.  On the way out Dr. Poop congratulated me "By the way-- Good job on your weight!" she smiled.
Knowing how hilarious God is, I'm sure Dr. Poop will be the one to show up at labor.  In the mean time, I'm scheduling all my appointments-- (which may only be one or two more!!!) with my Dr. Favorite or Dr.Second Favorite.

Things I want to ingest the week of July 4th (post delivery)

Starbucks blueberry scone

Iced coffee sweetened with half and half

Starbucks cookie drink thing

Champagne

Sushi
 i love you too, cake.
Chocolate Cake or cupcakes

or any other cakes

Brownie Fudge Sundae
or even just the brownie

Margarita

Sandwich made on Challa Bread

Godiva Chocolate

Rich macaroni and cheese (more than a 1/3 cup serving size)

croissant

fries from The Bagel Restaurant (more than a 1/2 cup serving)

an eclair

soft chewy cookies

gigantic burrito from Chipotle or Tarascas

Bloated Thoughts

It's been a while since my last post, and as I begin to write this I don't have any direction.  I just figure it's best to write something, just to get something out there.  I've been reading a lot about breastfeeding and maybe this blog is like that-- you want to keep expressing the milk to encourage more production.  Maybe just by writing something I'll keep myself from drying up.

It's not that nothing has happened since my last post.  My belly has grown so much, I've gone through a variety of phases-- leg cramps, daily heartburn, seeing a tiny foot or hand rolling around reminiscent of the movie Alien, and this week has been a lot of swollen ankles and feet and hands.  I had two beautiful baby showers, where I thought my heart might explode with gratitude and love for all the support we received from our family and friends.  All baby's grandparents have now felt her kick. 

I had a new kind of Mother's Day this year-- instead of just feeling sad that my mom is no longer around, I had strangers wishing me happy Mother's Day. And it wasn't sad at all. It was the weirdest thing.

We even got another ultra sound! Although in this one there was way less to see since she is running out of room.  (How can she be running out of room in this humongous belly??)  They said she's definitely a girl, she was still moving as best as she could, and even got the hiccups right before our eyes.  (She gets the hiccups at least twice a day).  And of course they measured her and still think she's earlier than July 4-- they predicted June 24th.

We completed our course in Child Birth and Newborn care.  I only felt faint a couple times-- when they talked about tearing.  I'm deciding to believe that hearing about, seeing pictures of and listening to descriptions of tearing will be worse than when it actually happens.  We also saw pictures of circumcision, although I avoided one of them, I don't know why Danny put himself through looking at the slides.

Now we're picking out her first outfit, buying odds and ends and getting our hospital bag ready--I'm hoping she'll come in a month.

We're just generally feeling anxious and excited.  Every pregnancy and labor and birth story is so different, and there's no predicting what ours will be like.  So there's a feeling of leaping into the dark without knowing what's in store for us.  But knowing that it's probably going to be the best thing ever.

I'm cherishing this time, despite some of the very minor discomfort-because so many women have told me they missed being pregnant.  I like going for my morning walk, humming her songs along the way.  I've enjoyed Danny talking to her through my belly, and reading her a story.  I like how strangers smile at me, and children stare at my belly with fear or disgust or wonder.  I passed one little girl and her younger brother on the sidewalk and I heard her tell him, "She's going to have a baby!".  Once when I was waiting for the bus stop a car pulled up and a young girl who was maybe 6 shouted something out at me and pointed to my belly. I just heard the word 'baby'.  The driver may have been her mother-- she was smiling.

But even though I'm enjoying the moment, when people ask me if I'm ready, I'm starting to feel a little closer to answering 'yes'.

Diabetes- another opportunity for Faith and also for Hand Modeling

Last week was one of the more challenging weeks of the pregnancy so far.  The first trimester had some lows- but since then I've had a very enjoyable pregnancy.

Last Monday when I called the doctor's office to see how my results came back for the glucose testing, they put me on hold.  On hold as I was praying, I felt Karate Baby kicking around in there, and it reminded me that this test wasn't to check on her awesome levels-- she's going to be awesome and there's no test that will prove otherwise.  Her awesome levels wouldn't even be able to be measurable.  So I tried to keep this in perspective when they told me that I failed two out of four of the tests for gestational diabetes.  The good news is they said my levels weren't too bad and I can probably control it through nutrition and exercise and may not have to use insulin.  The bad news was that I would have to prick my finger four times a day, and read pamphlets that have the word 'high risk pregnancy' and 'worst case scenario- still birth' and 'baby may be too large to deliver'.  All phrases that would eventually lead me to tears on one occasion.  The day I got the results, I immediately found my friend Trisha who had had gestational diabetes during her pregnancy.  "It's going to be alright, right?" I asked her in tears.  "Yes!" She assured me.  

When I called the nurse/educator that I am working with to figure out what all of this meant for us, I immediately was reassured.  As usual, in times of despair in my life, God sent me someone with a sense of humor.  "Is the worst part pricking my finger?" I asked her.  "You're having a girl, right?"  She asked. "Probably." I said.  "No, the worst part is when she turns 11."  When I met with her in her office, she ran through all the information, which basically turns out to be a lot of food tracking, and zero Cadbury eggs--not even the mini kind.  Then she got to the scariest part-- where I have to think about and look at blood!! The blood sugar testing.  Danny squeezed my leg under the table as she showed me the 'lancets'- a nice way of saying needle.  And the 'strips'- a nice way of saying 'blood sponges'.  He was thinking in that moment that if there was any person on the Earth that should not be doing this it's me-- I'm a wuss about blood. I dont even like to think about it being contained in our bodies,  let alone forcing a drop out of myself four times a day.  But it's going on week two now and I think I can actually handle it.  Isn't that amazing? 

Also, in most cases, women with gestational diabetes no longer have it all once the baby is born.  And the baby will not be born with it either.  So I am planning on eating the best chocolate cake ever in celebration of her birth.  Hopefully grandma Angela will bring me some.  And I mean, literally, as soon as she is out.  Maybe as she's crowning.

The whole thing is still weird.  But luckily every time I've tested myself, my levels are well within normal.  So I'm taking this as another opportunity to have faith-- that all will turn out perfectly in the end.  And I'm accepting the invitation to hope-- that I won't need to take insulin, but just keep eating 6 small meals a day and continue to excercise as I have already been doing.

I am supposed to dispose of my 'medical waste' (the needles and blood sponges) in a very specific way.  that was part of the informational packet I was given.  I am supposed to properly identify as such.  Luckily my office gave us plastic coffee mugs, and I've been using mine as pictured below:

Also, at first I was concerned that all of this finger pricking would hurt my career in hand modeling.  However, as others have pointed out, it's just another opportunity-- to hand model for diabetes testers:

And finally, when I was waiting to meet the nurse to discuss diabetes, I noticed a diabetes pamphlet that had Gina from Martin on it.  And when the nurse was showing me how to work my blood testing monitor, she told me that it's the same model that one of the Jonas brothers used.  So I was inspired to research celebrities who have been down this same finger pricking path:

Of course we all know this dude from the commercials I always mute:




whoever this guy is...he kinda looks like a tool, but I guess we're friends now that we're in the same club..

I believe the following two were mentioned or shown in one of my favorite movies Stepbrothers...





  Selma had the gestational kind like me! And she must be okay because she's doing Burger King commercials now.



Also, I won't go into details over the public blog, but toward the end of the week I had to visit the ER for a painful cyst.  This week is looking promising though.  I have faith it will get even better.

*hand modeling phototography by Camerin Courtney

Glucose Testing Ain't Sweet

Last week I finally put off the glucose testing long enough and went in to do the gestational diabetes screen.  They make you drink this flat orange pop


Well I found out at my Dr. appointment yesterday that I failed the test.  So I had to go in this morning at 8 am and have my blood drawn FOUR times and sit there for THREE WHOLE HOURS!  And I had to fast after dinner last night and not eat during the test.  I thought I would probably be starving or faint after having my blood taken away for hours and not being able to eat.  But it wasn't so.  The hardest part was not snacking last night after dinner.  Out of nowhere the idea of donuts were suddenly attacking me.  Or maybe it was the constant Dunkin Donuts commercials.  In my dreams I was taking the blood test and looking down and seeing food suddenly appear in my hands.  'Why didn't you stop me from eating this feta cheese?? or this bowl of bran flakes??' I'd turn to Danny in horror.  Not eating has never been so hard.

This morning when we got to the lab, a worker was just showing up to open the doors and turn on the lights and there was already a line of senior citizens waiting on a bench to run in and sign in ahead of us.  Turns out there was only one worker at the lab today and maybe 50 people in the three hours I waited.  I prayed, "Jesus, I know it's not as bad as being crucified, so sorry to even ask, but can you  help me get through this? I really hate needles".  The hardest part was a little girl who was three who had to get her blood drawn.  All of us waiting outside heard her screams, "I don't want this!" she was screaming. "Ouchy!".  My eyes were watering and the little one in my belly was squirming as if she had some sort of supernatural connection to the little girl and felt her pain. The second hardest part was the last blood draw which had to come out of my hand. 

But just like most (all?) other crappy things in life, it had an ending.  It's over, I did it! :)

And I am willing to do all this of course, for the new life soon to come.  But if I can please please please not have gestational diabetes.  Please? I don't want to have to stick my finger four times a day.  I don't even feel comfortable watching the commercials where the old people talk about sticking their fingers.  I mute the TV every time they come on!
If I have diabetes I will do this: