Tuesday, December 30, 2008

Pardon me while I burst into flames.

Oh my god, is it hot in here?
What? No? Hmmm...must just be me...

*rips off clothes and runs screaming down the street*

Yesterday the high was 45, and I rode the entire way home from work with my windows rolled half way down like it was July. You would think I was wearing a fur coat over a full body snowsuit, but I was really wearing a crappy Motherhood shirt and pants and was still giving my Secret Clinical Strength a run for it's money. I did not end up with pit rings but it was a nail biter there for several minutes.

The sweaty hog situation was not enough to stop me from going to the mall to get a dress for my baby showers. I bought a couple shirts to wear but went through much hand wringing over the not-cute-enoughness of them and decided to give in to the witchy ways of old Motherhood Maternity.

The Motherhood Maternity love-hate relationship? It continues.

I bought the first dress I tried on. It's cute and I like it. But I wanted to also buy some maternity tights, because I like to wear tights and I don't care if they make me look like I'm in second grade. So they had 2 sizes: A/B, and C/D. Of course you can't try them on, because MM is a whore. The dirtiest kind of whore, who doesn't allow returns.

The sizing chart was something like this:
Size A/B: 5'0" - 5'4", 100 - 140 lbs.
Size C/D: 5'5" - 6'0", 140 - 200 lbs.

Now. I don't know how to read this...is it your prepregnancy weight? Or, your current weight? Because my height is clearly in the A/B range, and my prepregnancy weight is also in the A/B range. But my current weight is creeping into the C/D range with 2 months to go, and strangely enough I have not grown 5 inches to accommodate the extra poundage. Huh.

So I ask the lady if the weight ranges are prepregnancy or current, and she says, "I dunno, lemme see..." and then after a 10 second examination, she declares, "Current weight!"

Hmmm...I feel an argument coming on. I almost start to feel bad for this lady...

My opinion is that the ranges must be prepregnancy weight because:
1.) Their clothing sizes are prepregnancy. If you were a small before, you buy a small now,
2.) Just because I have gained 19 pounds does not mean that I can wear the same size tights as someone who is 5'8". I mean, it's like trying to put one of Santa's elves into the uniform of a sweedish volleyball player. Not.happening. It's not like the 8 inches of fabric is absorbed by my sheer will to wear $14 tights.

Her opinion is that they must be current weight because:
1.) Hi, I don't care if this tights-sizing theory is not consistent, I am telling you that these are current weights and even though I am probably wrong, I am not giving in. Just buy them!
2.) Your belly will absorb the extra inches!

She was not dazzled by my prediction of bunchy ankles and a waistband up to my shoulders. I was not dazzled by her logic of several disappearing inches of fabric. It was disappointing because I really like winning arguments, and she just kind of copped out by saying over and over, "your belly will accommodate the extra fabric."

No tights for me.

Just as well. They'd just make me all sweaty anyway.

Sunday, December 28, 2008

Christmas 2008: The Pregnancy Time Machine

If it weren't for my giant belly, I would have thought that I had been thrust back into the Groundhog Days of the first trimester this Christmas day. Luckily we had no plans and had our family get togethers on the days around Christmas, because I was feeling like complete and total ass. I was barfy and slept all day save three hours, when I ate, peed, and tried to scan pictures but broke out into a sweat and had to lay down so I wouldn't pass out.

Other than the sickness we had a fantastic holiday. Cupcake got some really cute gifts. I followed my gestational diabetes diet for the most part - I did eat mashed potatoes, stuffing, and a few cookies at the dinner we hosted. It is a lot harder to not eat those sorts of things when you actually make them!

Speaking of the 'beetus, I will find out on Tuesday if I have to take medication to control it. I'm guessing the answer will be YES YOU NEED MORE SHOTS, BIOTCH. My OB said they like to see 90% the readings within the desired range, and I'm at about 75% and that is with eating very little carbs. I clearly need more help than just the diet. I have been following the guidelines religiously and still getting high readings. It's frustrating.

My mom took a few maternity pics for me, since I couldn't justify spending money on them. Here is my favorite - we hung it in the nursery until we get our first family picture:

I can't believe we have less than two months to go. I still have so many things to do. I have yet to find daycare or a pediatrician. I have baby showers the next two Saturdays, so I will have lots of things to put away and set up after that. And I would like to be done with work at the end of January.

Mostly, I can't even believe we made it this far. Also, I can't believe that this child will double its weight by the time it's all over, and that she won't burst out of my stomach as if shot from a t-shirt gun.

Monday, December 22, 2008

Self Diagnosis: I'm being a baby.

Self Medication: Stop it. Immediately.

I had my 30 week appointment today. I was already pissed because I waited for about 40 minutes for the midwife. Fine - I know they get busy and have other patients, etc. But I was the second appointment for the day, and they have thin doors there. SO, that means I heard her entire conversation with one of the nurses about how she is late because she went to the Browns game yesterday (punishment enough, I suppose) and then went out, and was so exhausted that she overslept and it was so cold outside brrrrr! So at the 40 minute wait mark I busted out of my room and asked when she was coming because I HAVE TO GO TO WORK! Surely she thought I had all day free because I looked like a kept woman, with my pilled Motherhood pants and my maternity top that goes down to my mid-thigh because I am suuuuper short. People always make that mistake.

Yes, I was already pissed, which isn't out of the norm because I'm kind of pissy. It got worse though. It seems that I can't use a midwife because I have the 'Beetus. Thanks a lot, pancreas. You're a lazy asshole.

No kidding, I felt like flinging myself onto the floor and throwing a qualified toddler style fit, fists and feet flailing. I don't know why but I seriously wanted to be a baby about it. I even thought to myself: self, you're being a baby and I am rolling my eyes at you right now.

I was planning on skipping the childbirth class, and just letting the midwife help me out with the labor until my sweet, sweet epidural. But, now I am going to suck it up and go to the five week class. It should be fun, since I heard a naughty rumor that they also make the husbands pretend to be in labor and practice breathing. HAHAHA! All I want from Santa is for that rumor to be true. I have the feeling that someone else in our house may feel like throwing a toddler style fit...

The baby is measuring exactly 30 weeks, and I haven't gained any weight since last time. I don't care so much about the weight, but was glad for that report because it means that I'm not yet carrying the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man (er...Girl?) in my ever expanding uterus. She is normal sized, and face down, ass up. I was also glad to hear that, because I knew that I saw either a head or a butt moving back and forth across the top of my belly and it was driving me nuts not knowing what it was.

I have to go again next week to report my finger prick results and find out if I have to take any medication. Then again the following week for my 32 week appointment. I don't think it's necessary, I think they just enjoy my company and miss my sparkling personality when I am gone.

Thursday, December 18, 2008

30 Weeks: Let's get this low carb party started!

Today I had my appointment with the nurse and the dietitian to learn how to manage the diabeetus. Overall, I don't think it is going to be a big deal. And it's sad how excited I am that I can eat salad dressing that is full of fat and delicious ranchy goodness.

(Yes, I am prepared to eat these words at a later date should I be required to use insulin.)

(Also, I might have to stop calling it diabeetus, because I swear to god I almost keep saying it that way. Wilford Brimleyepper, indeed.)

The nurse and dietitian both seemed to think that my levels should be controlled by the diet, because while I did technically fail the 3-hour, it wasn't the worst case scenario. They said it was more like a D- instead of an F, so the rest of the session was filled with grade bargaining on my part. I got points added for only gaining 19 pounds and for typing out my eating patterns because apparently that type of anal behavior is greatly appreciated by them. I left there with a C-.

All of my tests so far have been in the acceptable range, and it kind of feels like a game - what can I eat that I like and still get a good grade on my test? This is a game with which I am very very familiar. I just usually play like this: what is the least amount I can study and still get an A?

I hate our work elevator. It is painfully slow, which makes for longer than necessary social avoidance on my part because I hate small talk. Especially with strangers. Yesterday was a nice little day despite the diabeetus dealings and I was in a pretty good mood.

So I get in the elevator and of course it stops one floor down. Which is awesome because that puts about 15 seconds more between me and sweet sweet freedom. 15 seconds too many on a normal day, especially so when you're stuck in the elevator with Inappropriate Pregnancy Comment Lady.

You know, it's really overdone, isn't it? The whole blogging about inappropriate comments about pregnancy size? I can't resist, though.

I mean, people have been having babies since THE BEGINNING OF TIME. It's not like something that Apple just came out with that old people can't understand and young whipper-snappers are into. If you exist, your mom got fat, or someone got fat on your behalf. Maybe it looks like I shoved 3 Macs down my pants, but I promise: it's just a real live human being inside my enormous joey pouch. No chance of electric shock or anything.

It should not be surprising to me that Inappropriate Pregnancy Comment Lady took one look at my stomach and asked me when I was due, and then feigned complete horror that I had two months to go, going on to ask if I was having triplets hahaha. Triplets!

I should be over it by now, and I should handle it like a grown up, but I was tempted to ask her if her big fat old lady ass was having triplets, and then point out that I probably weigh less than her despite the fact that I am EIGHT months pregnant. The best compromise I could find was to ignore her the rest of the way down while she asked me questions and made comments about how slow the elevator was. She must've been sweating the look of loathing on my face and began to fear for her life as she considered the speed of the elevator and the sheer mass of my very pregnant and wide girth.

Maybe she was doing math problems in her head? Like, if an angry pregnant woman the size of a freight train is 12 inches away from me and we still have 7 seconds left in this elevator, how much longer can I expect to live?

Tell me - what is the worst comment you received while carrying the sweet miracle of life?

Wednesday, December 17, 2008

Too sweet for my own good.

Before I got a chance to get my school grades back, I got my 3 Hour Glucose test result: COLOSSAL FAIL.

Wilford Brimley Pictures, Images and Photos

The diabeetus? I haz it.

I passed the first and last draw, but my middle two were "extremely elevated." It looks like I will be checking my blood sugar four times per day for a few weeks so they can monitor everything.

The hour after my phone call was spent as follows:
I want caaaaaaaannnnnnnnnddddddddyyyyyy!
Why is everything such a pain in the ass?
Am going to birth a gargantuan baaaayyyyybbeeee!
I want to go home and walllllllloooooooowwwwwww!

My OB set me up with a company that handles diabetes, and it sounds like such a great place. They come to your house, teach you how to use all of the testing equipment, and bring all of the testing supplies right to you. And do you think that my insurance covers a program like that?

Um, not so much.
I'm waiting on my call from the hospital so that I can go to their diabetes class, and then they mentioned that I would have to provide my own supplies but I don't really know for sure.

Mostly I'm over it and it will be fine and blah blah blah. And partly I'm pissed, because ohmygod I just wanted to be reproductively normal. The last thing I want is more shots. And while I can surely handle a few finger pricks after twice daily stomach stabbings followed by months of 2 inch long needles of progesterone in oil in the ass, I still feel the need to be righteously indignant.

Me: Reproductively abnormal and righteously indignant...

...also, you may say that I am dressed as Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz. Or, drunk. This picture is very descriptive.

Anyone who has had GD: feel free to let me know how horrible, or not horrible, it was. Or how you didn't have a big giant baby. Or how you did. Whatever. I don't really know a lot of people who had this and I mostly just feel embarrassed like I did something wrong or something.

Friday, December 12, 2008

Dear Ripley's: I Choose Not

We went on a cruise to the Bahamas for our honeymoon. Our main goal was to come home looking native. Newlywed Sex? Probably. Romance? Eh, if it happens. Eating? Constantly. Sleeping? Certainly. Tanning? OH HELL YES!

Being that we live in Ohio, where there is sun for about 19 days per year (all of them working days), and that our wedding was in March, I'm sure you can imagine the sheer paste covering our collective skin. White like chicken fat is what I call it. People at our wedding had to wear sunglasses just to prevent blindness.

We decided that the best way to meet our tanning goal was to lay out without sunscreen. In the Bahamas. At the end of winter. If I could, I would plead young and stupid, but it was only three years ago and I think we could all argue that maybe the stupid still sticks.

Let me just put on my Captain Obvious Cape and tell you that on day 3 of our honeymoon we were red like lobsters. (Or scarlet Fiestaware*)

Day 4 of our trip was to Key West and there was no way in Red Lobster HELL we were going to lay out. So one of the things we decided to do was to go to the Ripley's Believe it or Not Museum.

The museum was fairly entertaining, but the best part was the picture machine that would combine two faces to show you your future spawn. Me, being the morose overly confident "we're having a honeymoon baby" person that I was, could not wait to do this! So we did.

It was a girl...and...it's just...
Let me just show you:

You see? Kind of, like, a face that only a mother could love? It reminds me of a really messed up If They Mated segment from an episode of Conan O'Brien.

As far as actual real pregnancy news, I took my 3 hour glucose test on Friday. Aside from nearly barfing for the first hour, it wasn't all that bad. I am convinced that I failed, though, because today my OB's office called and rang once then hung up. That same thing happened when I failed my one hour, except they called back. They didn't call back this time but it was almost 5 o'clock. Sound logic, right? I bet I've got the Diabeetus.

*Speaking of scarlet Fiestaware - that is the color of Fiestaware that I am hoping to win on Jaci's giveaway.

Wednesday, December 10, 2008

Totally judging myself today.

If I saw me out in public today, I would guffaw and probably utter something along the lines of: what a train wreck.

I left the house this morning already irritated at my clothes. Because they have the nerve to not fit around my body. I can take some of the blame for this problem, because I refuse to buy any more maternity clothing than I have already, and what I have already is not much. In addition, I am trying to wear as many nonmaternity tops as possible so that my 7 maternity shirts won't wear out in the next two months. But! Still! Stupid clothes!

Basically, I spent so much time trying on my teeny tiny prematernity shirts that I didn't have time to put on makeup or, apparent to me much later in the day, brush my hair? I noticed a giant loop of hair sticking out of the top of my head that I missed when haphazardly pulling my hair into a pony tail. And I'm not talking morning realization here. I'm talking afternoon, talked to a bunch of people, looked like a hobo for half a day realization. Like walking around with a booger in your nose all day.

My motivation to groom isn't the only thing lost. I take my last final tomorrow and am finding it really really hard to give a shit about it. The professor doesn't give anything less than a C+, and since my GPA is high enough, I'd graduate and life would be fab whether I study or not. It's like someone saying, "I'll give you $500 if you study your butt off, or $498.75 if you do nothing." My pride tells me to study and keep my A, and everything else tells me to do other important things like buy baby clothes from Gap and hang them by size, or count the number of diapers I have on stock and possibly rearrange them for the bazillionth time.

This blog entry is turning into the place where petty complaints go to die. I am fully aware. But it's doing a great job of distracting me from studying! HA!

I've been creating scenarios in my head that involve my belly button and its need for clothing. My belly button is super shallow and about 700 inches wide. He is having an inner struggle: stay in or pop out? Like, maybe he doesn't want to pop out because he thinks he will be cold and knows that I won't buy anything to keep it warm because they don't sell those things at Baby Gap. Or, maybe he is rebelling against cupcake by refusing to create more room for kicking because she kicks the belly button constantly and he is pissed.

(I don't know why my belly button is masculine.)
(I don't know why I imagine my belly button to have internal struggles.)
(I don't know why I blog about it.)
(Really, folks, I just generally don't know anymore.)

Saturday, December 6, 2008

28 Weeks: Getting the name change paperwork, just in case...

As it turns out, I received a big fat FAIL on my one hour glucose tolerance test. So now I have to do the three hour. Next week, which loosely translates as: finals week, you are totally screwed, dude.

So if profanity offends your delicate senses, please excuse me for a moment...


Now. I will be going in for my three hour on Friday, because I had to pull the "I have finals next week and need to study because I am a procrastinating underachiever so screw you and your Monday or Wednesday appointment."

The doctor, being a doctor who went to medical school and so probably understands the sheer doom of finals, was fine with me putting my appointment off until Friday. But the appointment schedulers? Oh, no. They were not happy. Because they already had a three-hour scheduled for Friday.

One. Three hour. Already scheduled. Please forgive me for not understanding the Big Deal. But a Big Deal it was, or, "A Recipe for a Mistake," according to the appointment ladies. Thank goodness for my (super hottie*) doctor, who said that was stupid, and made them schedule me for a half hour later than the first appointment.

But seriously? Is it that confusing to deal with two sets of blood? That is kind of pathetic, and also? There were three cups of pee in the little cubby when I left my sample, so if they can't keep blood straight, what do they do with the pee? What if they confuse it with their lemonade? Dear God! The sheer humanity!

The possibility of Wilford Brimleyepper is still pending until next week. Let's just hope I can get the day off work...

Other than the diabeetus scare, the appointment was fine. Heart rate perfect, growth good, no exposure to RH. Start my every other week appointments. Giddy up.

The belly is growing, the belly button is almost nonexistent, weight gain is 18 pounds. I can't sleep laying down in my bed, so I sleep sitting up on the big comfy chair in our living room. But I am feeling pretty great. Cupcake moves all the time. Life is pretty good right now, and will improve immensely after next week because I will graduate and will have a normal life like a normal adult.

I've been lucky enough to avoid any asshat encounters, save the lady at Macy's yesterday who asked me if my baby was due on Christmas, and then was shocked when I said February. I should have faked labor right there.

26 Weeks:

27 Weeks:

28 Weeks:

*Our doctor is hawt, much to Mark's delight. We call her Suzy (not to her face), which is wholly inappropriate and still hysterical to only us. It's all OK, though, because I have a hawt chiropractor (he has no nickname). We also have a hawt female insurance agent.**
**We are weird. And only do business with hawt people, I guess.

Thursday, December 4, 2008

Possibly changing my name to Wilford Brimley

Or, Wilford Brimleyepper? Clearly, I will have to carefully think this through.

Today is the day of my Glucose Tolerance Test and my RhoGam shot. Today, I will find out if I have the diabeetus.

My appointment is at 8:30, and I have to fast. It is going well, seeing as it is currently 7:03 and I have started to consider eating the couch cushions because they probably do not contain sugar and it wouldn't matter if I ingested a bit of leather, right?

The lady who scheduled my appointment said that I should just drink a tiny bit of water, and not eat anything, but it shouldn't be that bad because I will be able to eat by 10. HAHAHA. I'm sure she was saying that with a KFC drumstick hanging out of her mouth and a chocolate chip triple-thick milkshake just waiting to wash it all down. Back pats for me, for refraining from telling her to kiss the fattest part of my ass because hi, my name is Jennepper, and I get up at 5:30 and I'm not sure if you knew this but I am a sacred vessel carrying sweet, miraculous life, and I require a lot of food.

So. It's 7:07. I'm still hungry, and I might have diabeetus of the gestational variety. Do not plan to be on the roads in Northeast Ohio at 10, because I will kill you with my Pontiac if you get between me and the nearest fast food place (unless I have the diabeetus, then replace "fast food place" with "place that serves salads at 10 am").