As a reminder, Wednesday at 9pm eastern is the deadline for our latest Living Out Loud Project. I haven't done mine yet either, so don't fret. This one should be easier than the others, but really try to stretch yourself for trying something new in the food world. Details are here. Now on with the rest of the story. Today has been a less than stellar day, topped off with the fact that I'm trying to type without bending my index finger lest I reopen the gaping wound on my knuckle from throwing down with a certain calico cat in our house. Let me back up.

A week ago, I went to see my obstetrician who will hypothetically remove this baby from me one way or another in October. My very first visit to EVMS was full of shenanigans and I was concerned that if this doctor was as disorganized and bizarre as some of the other staff I would have to fire her and/or go have this baby in a kiddie pool in the living room (hooray hardwood floors!). Thankfully, she was superb. She was patient, kind and very knowledgeable about my insulin needs and calculating for carbs. She even told me that my sugars were too low and that worried her that it would wear me out to keep that up for the next seven months. I could have jumped off that exam bench and hugged her right then.

I'm needing less insulin now, for whatever cosmic reason, so we've dialed back my daily doses and carb calculations. This seems to have worked well during the day but occasionally at night my sugars go nuts. Of course it's not every night, so I can't make a change in my basal patterns, I just have to wake up every time the sensor alarm goes off, check my blood, give a correction and go back to bed for an hour or two before it goes off again.

Last night was one of those nights. I went to bed at 11pm with a blood sugar of 117 (late dinner). At 2am, it was 156. At 3am, it was 196. At 5am, it was 210. At 6am, it was 206. At 7:30 it was 155 and by 9am I had finally wrestled it back down to 102. Each of those times I checked my blood, I was taking more insulin but it just kept climbing. I have mastered checking my blood without actually fully waking up. I've also given myself corrections based off of the sensor reading alone with little to no memory of doing it in the night. But I knew my luck would just mean it would plummet by dawn if I corrected more than usual. So I just stayed the course and tried to reign it in. Apparently this baby is a night owl because it does all its growing in the middle of the night.

My biggest pregnancy symptom (other than a super human sense of smell) is my lack of patience for other people's bullshit. And it amazes me just how much bullshit the rest of the world makes me endure on a regular basis. They are working overtime. I don't seem to have the energy to be chipper in all this like I normally do, but can only muster the stamina to bitch at people or roll my eyes behind their backs. And is is so grueling being that bitchy for 40+ hours a week that by the time I get home I just want to sleep or have Rich brush my hair. So no, I'm not "enjoying all this sleep while I can," thanks for bringing it up. I'm up every hour all night tending to my blood sugar hoping I'm not failing at motherhood before this little bean even sprouts limbs. And I'm wrestling with the world's longest case of PMS (pre-mommy syndrome?) ever. Oh and everyone around me is a moron (Except you reading this; you're great. And Rich, he's totally awesome all the time.).

The good news is I successfully complete my first trimester on Tuesday, so things should get better. I'm not expecting to feel like a million bucks on Wednesday necessarily, but hopefully soon.

So back to the Cat Throw Down of Aught Nine. I came home and was chilly so went upstairs to find socks and sweatpants (I was told I would eventually be warm all the time but so far I'm freakin' freezing!). As I stood in the bedroom taking off my shoes, Emily looked right at me, backed up to the wall right next to my laundry basked of clean laundry and started to spray the wall to mark her territory. And I commenced losing my mind. I yelled and took a swipe at her. Then I closed every exit from that room and disassembled the bed until I dragged her out from under it while she made noises like she might spit peas at any moment. I dragged her over to the offending spot and proceeded to rub it all over her. In the tussle, she managed to get my knuckle with her fang and took a significant slice out of it.

Right about then Rich came running upstairs to see what team of ninjas I was fighting to find both the cat and I heaving and puffy-tailed, one covered in blood and the other covered in cat pee. I don't need stitches but I shouldn't bend the knuckle so it won't break the wound open over and over and it will have a chance to heal. Rich retrieved me a bag of crushed ice while furious tears streamed down my face and he wrapped up my finger in tape and a bandage. He then patiently cleaned the wall and brought my laptop to the bed before retreating to his hockey game.

There's a country song that says, "I don't know why you gotta be angry all the time" and I truly am tired of being this mad all the time. I don't know how some of you do it; it's exhausting! I tried going to the beach yesterday to brighten my mood and it worked in the short term. The sun was warm, the water was still ice cold and the dog didn't pull on her leash. Everyone was friendly and pleasant out there and I puttered around with my butt in the sand, digging holes and sorting shells for a bit before heading home. So while it's a little rough now and then, it's not all bad.

And eventually I will reconcile with the cat or one of us will have to live outside from now on.