We’ve reached the thirty-week mark of this pregnancy. And when you consider that full-term is forty weeks, thirty seems like I’m very nearly there, right? Especially since I’ve been pregnant since JULY. Until you stop and count and figure out that ten weeks still adds up to about two and a half months. So, not nearly there after all. Ugh.
A colleague who just had a baby recently posted one of those cutesy card-type-message things on Facebook that read:
Each month has an average of thirty days…except the last month of pregnancy which has 1,453 days.
I thought this was pretty funny given the truth, if slightly exaggerated, in the statement. It certainly feels like the near end is a long way away.
We are mostly ready for the baby but for a dresser or some piece of furniture in which to store his clothes. The girls share one now and there is no consolidating to make room. He will have gender appropriate clothing for about six months. And then if we don’t do some shopping, he will look lovely in shades of pink, purple, and bright blue, with an assortment of flowers, hearts, cats, dancing girls, ice cream cones, dresses, leggings and ruffles. But it’s the third kid, right, so I’m sure he’ll just go with it.
On Friday I have an appointment to do fasting bloodwork for the dreaded three-hour glucose test. With all three pregnancies I’ve had to do this. My numbers flagged the one-hour test, but were fine with both girls after the three-hour. I’m praying it goes the same way with this one.
I’ll show up in the morning having eaten nothing since the night before. Then I’ll have to drink, in under a minute, a small 10-oz. bottle of a fruit-punch-flavored concoction that has enough sugar in it to likely keep a person alive in the wild for forty days and forty nights, or the equivalent of about 86 Mountain Dews, without stopping but for a second or two to catch my breath and coach myself to keep going despite the awful gagging sensation that is rising in my throat. Certainly this can’t be good for the baby.
And then I’ll sit in the waiting room and/or walk around the limited space in the hallways of the hospital, at least for the first hour, after which I’ll start to feel so loopy and dizzy on account of all the sugar that’s built up in my system on top of not having eaten anything for half a day. After that I’ll have to stay seated until they call my name to draw blood, and pray I don’t pass out from all the excitement.
At my last appointment the kind receptionist reminded me to bring a snack for after the test. “You’ll feel a little hungry and tired and will need to eat before you’ll start feeling better.”
Really? Yeah, my body got that message the last two pregnancies.
I’ll be sure to come packing with a thermos full of coffee and cream (hold the sugar, please), and likely a jalapeño cheddar bagel, toasted, with bacon, eggs and cheese, along with a side of chocolate chip cookies I just baked tonight, and maybe some orange juice as an extra special treat to wash it all down.
Take that, gestational diabetes. Bring on another nine-pound baby. I’m ready.