My constant companion

I'm not technically 21 weeks pregnant for a few more hours, but let's not quibble over details. As they told me a few weeks ago, we've reached the "cruise control" stage of the pregnancy. Every time I go for a checkup the nurse (that same one that screeches HELLO BABY at the ultrasounds) asks me expectantly if I can feel the baby move. And every time I remind her that I have a lot of torso real estate for him to roam around in and that I'm only 12/15/18 weeks pregnant.

And then Friday afternoon, Rich was out of town trying desperately to make his way through Philly to Montreal for his conference. And I was having one of the shittiest days I've had in quite a while at work, where I was ready take a stick to a whole list of people for being dumbasses.

Rich was fuming because US Air delayed his first flight because of a missing sticker on his plane so he missed his connection and had to spend the night in Philly, and I was fuming because I swear to God sometimes I'm the only competent person to troubleshoot a piece of software. I was sitting at my desk with my head in my hands sending text messages to my husband who was trapped in an airport and I felt something.

All the books say that it would feel like butterflies in your stomach or popping popcorn or a goldfish swimming around. They give it a fancy name called "quickening." With all those disparate descriptions, I was pretty sure I'd have to wait until you could measure his shoe size on my stomach before I'd be convinced it was him moving around and not the latest burrito I'd eaten. But sitting there it was obvious that was our son moving around saying hello. And even though Rich was hundreds of miles away, I felt like I had a little buddy in there, somebody on our team and in my corner with me.

It feels exactly like a tiny little person wiggling around in my lower belly in a sac of fluid. But when you've had a really horrible day, it feels like somebody's hugging you from the inside.

It's (gonna be) a boy!

At 2:36am this morning, I turned 32 years old. At 8:30am Rich, my parents and I sat in the doctor's waiting room for the ultrasound to show whether we were having a boy or a girl (as well as some other boring medical stuff they measured about blood vessels). Our little boy(!) is 10 ounces so far and doing fine. It was a treat to get to show my parents how the ultrasound equipment works and have them see their grandson in utero.

On the way to the doctor's office, Rich was driving but he doesn't go downtown that often so I was literally being that backseat driver telling him where to turn and reminding him which lane was about to become right turn only. I told my mother that we would have to practice this route so that he had it memorized before the baby is due and we're rushing to do it in the middle of the night.

When my mother went into labor with me my father wanted her to wait until after midnight to go to the hospital so they wouldn't get charged for the previous evening. As they drove to the hospital just after midnight on May 20th, my father was on automatic pilot (and probably reduced sleep) and accidentally got on the interstate versus the turn for Thole Street that lead to the hospital. It took them an extra little bit and some panicked "where are you going?!" remarks from my mother for them to get to the hospital. Only a few hours later, I was born.

We've never made big deals about birthdays in our family. Rich and I are going out for sushi tonight and then I'll maybe do some sewing this evening. I took the day off to not be rushed for the appointment, get my nails done this afternoon and rest up a bit before the weekend. All in all, not that different from other days except for the whole window into my womb thing this morning.

But I did get a nice gift from Smashing Magazine in that they published their article today about promotional materials that features a picture of my bottle openers I made last year for BlogHer (the picture is way towards the bottom but it's a good read so keep scrolling). I think that and some fresh baked brownies this evening are all I could ask for.

And in the interest of embarrassing our son before he's even born, feel free to gawk at him while he's still in my ever-expanding belly.

P.S. While in the waiting room for the ultrasound, my father leaned over and told me the woman around the corner had a "Baby Phat" t-shirt on and he thought it was some sort of maternity line of clothing. I couldn't muster explaining "phat" to my father before 9am.

Educating the diabetes educator

Today was another baby appointment. After the last visit three weeks ago where I waited for over an hour I was concerned this visit might involve me flipping furniture in the lobby like Godzilla. They must have made a note in my file, though, because I was called back at 1:35pm for my 1:30pm appointment. They whirled through my blood pressure, weight and other stats in under 10 minutes and I was situated in the exam room. The rest of the visit is usually where the nurse listens for a heartbeat, the diabetes educator looks at my blood sugar logs for the last three weeks and I wait to chat with the OB for a bit about anything pertinent. They take a few vials of blood for lab work and I'm on my way.

I love my OB but have had a strained relationship with the diabetes educator, Georgia. Because I'm forced to deal with her each visit it adds stress to the entire process. In the last visit (after waiting over an hour and having her dump my purse on my chest during the ultrasound) I got a little snippy with her. I wondered if she would remember me.

Interestingly, a new diabetes educator, Marilyn, came into the exam room. She had obviously been prepped about me because she knew I don't use their precious book and didn't give me attitude about it. She seemed to do better about not judging my blood sugars but then we started talking food. She fussed that I'm not eating enough protein during the day. When I asked her what she suggested, she said "you could have cheese or Canadian bacon." Seriously? Those are the two first things that come to mind when you think about protein? And why Canadian bacon? Not chicken or regular bacon or ham, but Canadian bacon.

Me: "I don't eat cheese." Her: "Oh, are you allergic?" Me: "I'm 19 weeks pregnant and you can see my food logs for the last three weeks. I eat 10 grams of fiber every morning. As far as I'm concerned, cheese is evil." Her: "Ahhh. Well, there's always Canadian bacon or other meats."

Marilyn returned to my logs. "I see you had a burger and fries. That's high in fat and will mess up your blood sugars." I just waited stoicly for her to get to the next line. "Hmm, but your sugars seem fine afterwards." Yeah, I'm kinda down with the Five Guys cheeseburger and fries combo.

"Frosted Mini Wheats? You shouldn't be eating stuff like that." She actually shook her head and looked over her papers at me. "You should eat multi-grain Cheerios instead of sugary cereals like that." I just looked at her and didn't say a word. I was starting to wish I had just dealt with Georgia instead.

When I was first diagnosed with diabetes in 1985, I was told I had to go the children's hospital instead of my parents' preferred and closer hospital because the children's hospital apparently had experts on juvenile diagnosed diabetics. We learned later that I was the first juvenile diabetic they had ever treated. The dietitian told us that I could have all the fruit juice I wanted but no sodas because fruit juice was a natural sugar and wouldn't affect my blood sugars. These people went to school to tell us that. I was allowed to have eggs and toast and milk for breakfast but not allowed to have french toast without the syrup because french toast was a forbidden food.

When I got back to the office and could look up my precious Frosted Mini Wheats, I found they have 10 fewer calories per ounce than Cheerios and more protein. Besides, Cheerios is now considered a drug so I'm sure they're bad for the baby.

After Marilyn left, I still got a visit from Georgia. She asked her usual question of "am I going to like these numbers?". I stammered. I knew she would probably ask this question and I wondered how I would react. I had scripted a few caustic retorts but nothing really sounded right. So instead I just stammered.

Georgia: "That sounds like I'm not going to like them." Me: "No, it's more like I don't like the question. I've been diabetic for exactly 24 years and every doctor and dietitian has stressed that I am responsible for my blood sugars. It's a lot of pressure to feel like you're responsible for anything that goes wrong with your disease because you could have prevented it."

I was surprised at how calmly I delivered all that. I think Georgia was surprised too because she turned from her paperwork and her mouth fell open.

Georgia: "But that's not fair to say that. The hormones affect your sugars and you can't control those." Me: "I think the whole point is that it's not fair. I just think a better way to phrase the question would be to ask me if I am happy with my numbers or even just to ask if I'm having any issues or problems." Georgia: "I ... you're right. That's a much better way to phrase it. So are you happy with these numbers?" Me: "I'm relatively happy with them, but maybe we can fix a few things."

So my appointment was still not very speedy but they're trying. I think by the time this baby is born, we'll all be a little better educated about maternal fetal medicine.