pregnancy

38-Week Wakeup Call

I’m supposed to have a baby in two weeks. And I had forgotten about this up until today. You see, I don’t hold my breath when it comes to these “due dates” everyone talks about when they talk about having babies. Both of my boys had to be evicted. Emory was kicked out 4 days past-due because I suddenly started having high blood pressure. That didn’t end up being the best birth story of all time. But I really don’t want to get myself too worked up about childbirth right now, so I’ll stop right there. If you wish to read that long-ass, boring birth story, you may do so here. (Chapters are linked from that post. That post was written last.)

With Elliot, things were a touch different. I went into that pregnancy with the intention of avoiding an induction and letting labor come “naturally”. (I have always loathed that word when it comes to describing childbirth, hence the quotes. There’s no such given definition, ladies. So stop suggesting otherwise. And stop acting smug about your choices and making others feel bad. Just stop.)

Anyway, Elliot’s due date came and went. And I mean I knew his due date. I knew his due date because I knew down to the minute when he was conceived. I have calendars and notebooks FULL of calculations, treatments and insane scribbles that went into trying to pregnant. And while he was a miracle baby—a complete surprise conceived naturally after a year and a half of fertility treatments from one of the best doctors in the United States—he was still scrutinized down to the very last ovulation predictor stick.

Oh, yes. I knew his due date.

Well, he too ended up being late. But since they started monitoring me at 40-weeks, I also knew he was safe the entire time. I became a regular in the ultrasound department at New York Presbyterian where they measured my amnionic fluid, his heartbeat and his size. Since everything was A-OK, I was told I could wait a bit longer.

And wait, I did. I went 15 days past my due date. That’s when my doctor did what OBGYN doctors should do in my opinion: she scheduled an induction. That induction went smoothly. And I had that booger out in 5 pushes.

All this to say, I am wildly cynical when it comes to due dates. And I know damn well not to assume this guy will actually come early. My boys just don’t do that sort of thing. And that belief was backed up last week when I visited my doctor and she informed me that my cervix was completely shut. Not even half a centimeter to work with. Nada.

On the other hand, people keep telling me that since this is is my third child he may just fall out of me. You may have heard about the woman who gave birth on a New York City sidewalk. That was her third baby. My younger brother (my mom’s third) came out quickly. And while the idea of getting a baby out quickly appeals to me, my plan is to have this baby at the same NYC hospital I had the other two. So, “falling out of me” isn’t really something I’m interested in especially since there’s a river, a shitload of potholes, traffic and a tunnel between myself and that hospital.

Still, the thought has never crossed my mind that he may actually come out on his own. Well, not until this morning.

I woke up at 6:30 in order to shower before the house explodes with the stressfulness that comes with getting everyone out the door on time. I don’t sleep for more than 3 hours at a time anymore thanks to having a bladder the size of a lima bean. Couple that with the battering of a watermelon-sized baby into said tiny bladder, and I’m always on the toilet. I’d been up an hour earlier to pee, so I was confused when I noticed something dripping down my inner thigh.

That’s when I had the following conversation:

“Are you peeing yourself?”

“Yes, I am peeing myself.”

“But you just peed an hour earlier!”

“Well, I don’t know what to tell you. I peed myself.”

“You’re so gross.”

“I know.”

So I sat down to pee and nothing came out.

“Well, that’s weird.”

It wasn’t until after I’d showered and gotten dressed did I begin to ponder the idea that my water had broke. You see, I’ve never actually experienced that before. That was always done for me. So I have no idea what it looks like, what it smells like, how much of it comes out, if it’s colored. I know nothing about such things.

Did my water break?

I googled and decided no. I’m just a disgusting pregnant woman with incontinence, another glorious side-effect of being 9 months pregnant. But peeing myself did give me the wakeup call I needed.

“You’re going to have a baby soon.”

And that’s not something I’d given much thought up until today. And I wish I were kidding. But it hasn’t occurred to me that we’re going to have another family member living with us in a few weeks. It hasn’t occurred to me that I need to buy pads, diapers, Mylicon, wipes, diaper rash cream. It hasn’t occurred to me that I need to find a local pediatrician for that immediate, post-birth checkup.  It hasn’t occurred to me that I need to make sure I can fit THREE children in the back of our RAV4. None of this occurred to me until this morning when I pissed myself while getting into the shower. And while that was slightly humiliating, I guess it’s the wakeup call I needed.

I am going to have a baby soon.

The Silence of the Boobs.

Forgive me for any grammar/spelling errors in advance. I’m writing this quickly as I am paying a woman decent money to come over, look at my boobs and help me figure out how to make them feel better. How I will get through this awkward meeting without booze? No clue. But getting drunk and working on one’s latch in order to feed a newborn doesn’t seem like such a great idea. So, I’m going to sit through this meeting sober.

This post may include information that will gross out the childless and/or those who are (for some stupid reason) freaked out about the idea that a boob is sometimes used to feed someone. So: stop reading right now if you’re not interested.

I’m trying to breastfeed again. And this time the little booger is super interested. He latched on immediately. We were breastfeeding within an hour of his birth. I was floored, excited. Yeah, things were good.

And we continued this way for the two days we were in the hospital. I fed him literally around the clock. I have what they referred to as a “cluster feeder” or something like that. He feeds every half hour, sometimes more, all night long. We got little sleep but I didn’t care.

He lost weight but nothing too bad. He was peeing a lot. The nurses were pleased. Things seemed fine. And they were. Mostly.

By day three he’d lost 10% of his bodyweight. He was also jaundiced, dehydrated, and just really fucking hungry. His pediatrician said, Enough already! Start feeding him from the breast and then give him 2 ounces (or more) of pumped milk or formula. We took him home and immediately gave him a bottle of formula. He ate up that bottle so damned fast, it was kinda sad. He was a new baby—active, awake, happy.

The problem is, again, my breasts just don’t produce enough milk to sustain this child. Em was the same way. I pumped with Em exclusively because we never got a latch down. I tried. It just didn’t work. So I pumped. I wasn’t ever able to sustain him this way alone. I always supplemented. He was happy.

This time the kid is interested, but he’s just not getting enough. Not yet.

But here’s why I’m hiring someone: it’s not because I don’t have enough milk. I’m OK with giving him what I can and then supplementing whatever I need. This time it’s because I must have gotten the latch wrong. Because the pain I’m experiencing is some of the worst pain I’ve ever felt. I won’t go into too many glorious and therefore disgusting details, but my nipples are absolutely falling apart. A piece of cotton—shit! AIR hurts them. And they are so beat up and scabbed over, milk can no longer get out. So the milk I do have in there is actually stuck.

My boobs are screaming. Someone needs to make the boobs stop screaming.

I have read that it’s not supposed to hurt THIS bad, so I hired someone to show me what I’m doing wrong. And I’m hoping for the best. I would like to make this work to some degree. If it doesn’t, I won’t beat myself up again like last time. I refuse to. But I’d like to make it work.

I know. Many of you are probably thoroughly grossed out. But I warned you to stop reading at the beginning. I guess what I’m saying is it’s your fault. :]

So, that’s where I am this time around regarding the whole boob thing. Any insight you might have is greatly appreciated. Hell, I’d love to hear about your battle wounds because misery DOES love company. And my boobs are miserable.

It rubs the Lanolin on the skin…

(Yeah, this joke is getting old, am I right?)

OK! I’m off. I need to mentally prepare myself for this very awkward meeting.

41 Weeks. Update: Still Pregnant!

I had my 41-week appointment on Tuesday. I’m still pregnant. I’m 2.5 centimeters dilated. Nothing much else has changed. My doctor went ahead and stripped the membrane again. I requested it, even though I am sick with a terrible cold. And while the idea of going into labor and having to push with snot flying out of my face makes me kinda wanna die, I am ready to be done with this.

My brother and I went out for lunch directly following the appointment and I had some pretty intense contractions. But once we started walking back to the subway, they stopped entirely.

Speaking of the subway and other public places, I keep finding myself having the same conversation with strangers.

“When are you due?”

“Last week.”

At that point they usually let out the type of laugh accompanied by a gentle punch to the shoulder. You know, an, “Aww shucks! I bet!” type of laugh.

It’s like when you ask your boss when they need the project and they say, “Yesterday!” and you laugh because you totally get it. It’s of the utmost urgency! They need that project done, like, YESTERDAY.

Like that.

And then the stranger says something like, “Oh, yeah. It gets really hard at the end. You just want it to be over already. Soon. Soon!”

No, really. LAST WEEK. I think to myself. But I’m too tired to explain that this project was actually due last week and this kid ain’t paying a lick of attention to his boss.

CUJO: YOU’RE FIRED.

Yesterday, the conversation changed a bit. Em and I were at the indoor playroom and the woman behind the counter asked me when I was due.

“Last week.” I said.

She actually gasped as did young man sitting beside her.

“You are joking!” She yelled this. “But… but you look so happy! Why do you look so happy?”

“Because I’m drunk.”

Dead silence.

I had a non-stress test on Monday morning. The baby is totally fine, as is my blood pressure. The right amount of amnionic fluid surrounds him. All is well within the womb. That’s probably why he’s in no hurry. I have another non-stress test tomorrow morning. Here is a picture I took while hooked up to the monitors.

I swear I’m not voguing. My left hand just didn’t know where to go. I’ve been suffering from that a lot lately—what does one do with their extremities?

“Yeah, but you gotta put the other arm somewhere. You can either lay on it or shove it between your bodies. The only other option is to stretch it above your head. But sometimes my arm pops out of socket when I’m sleeping like that. So I was constantly searching for someplace to keep my arm…” –Brody

The annoying part about the non-stress test is the nurse kept coming in and pointing out all the useless contractions I was having. She was excited. I was not. I’ve been having useless contractions for weeks and weeks. Practice contractions! Dress rehearsal! I know one name this kid won’t be given: Braxton. Braxton = non-commital pussy—a useless piece of shit.

(Y’all do know I’m joking, right? I am not really THAT angry. And to anyone named Braxton: I am kidding. You are not a useless piece of shit but you might be a non-commital pussy.)

I don’t know what to say. I’m in holding pattern, purgatory. I’m a host. I don’t even feel like I really exist right now. I’m just waiting. I can’t do much. I can’t go far from home. I’m a zombie. But I do have a cool cat.

This is how I spend most of my days and nights.

I have a creature taking comfort on the inside; I have a creature taking comfort on the outside. I’m a host, a giant, fat zombie host.

Mornings are most difficult because they punctuate a most restless sleep. Everything seems pointless come morning, which is strange for me because I have always been a morning person. I love morning. Not right now.

At this point, induction is looking more and more appealing to me. I’m exhausted. And my exhaustion leads to tears and tears lead to more mucous and snot and congestion and I’m sick of all this snot.

Something has got to give, like, yesterday.

40 Weeks! NO BABY. But We Do Have a Crib!

I had my 40-week appointment on Monday. My stubborn cervix hasn’t budged.

“You’re a tight 2 centimeters.”

“That’s a polite way of saying I’m still 1.5 centimeters, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Great. So, what can I do?:

So she “stripped the membrane” which is really just code for OMFG OUCH! She did this twice because the first time I instinctually backed away from her. You see, I didn’t want to kick her in the head. I really like my doctor and I was about to kick her in the head. So I backed away like a fat slug exposed to salt.

Y’all, that exam hurts. I know it’s not as painful as childbirth, but it hurts. Anyway, she went in for a second time because I asked her to. And I planted my hands at the end of the table near my ankles so I couldn’t move. The exam can, and often does, put a woman into labor. And while I did have contractions that night every hour from 1 AM until about 7:30 AM (among other stuff I won’t mention but other ladies probably know about), I didn’t go into labor. The contractions stopped first thing in the morning.

I’m still very pregnant and nothing is changing. Although, my hips ache more and more every day and my pelvis becomes more and more bruised. This kid is comfy, just like his brother was.

The good news is, my blood pressure is holding steady. That’s what forced me to be induced the first time around, a sudden spike in blood pressure. That’s not been the case this time. The baby is fine. I am fine, relatively speaking. So, I just wait. And I think I’m fine with that. I vowed to NOT be induced this time around and I’d like to stick to that plan. I want to go into labor this time. I want to let my body do its thing to some degree and then I’ll ask for the drugs and the epidural. :]

Culinary Leave

I am officially on leave from culinary school. This was a VERY difficult decision for me. But I realized that while I can still physically go, I am not getting what I should be getting out of it anymore. Couple the exhaustion with the shrinking brain and I felt like I was doing myself (as well as my teammates) a disservice when it comes to retaining any of the information. (Yeah, y’all. A pregnant woman’s brain actually shrinks during the 3rd trimester. And it doesn’t get back to normal for many months postpartum.)

So, I’m on leave for three months.

And my brain is smaller.

Huh? Whut?

The Crib!

We got a bassinet! Finally. It’s kind of a cross between a crib and a bassinet actually. But first I need to state that this post is NOT sponsored. I am not getting paid to write this. I genuinely think this crib is awesome. And I paid for it in lollipop sales.

Now that the caveat is out of the way, check this out. It’s called Alma Urban Crib. It even folds up for storage. It’s perfect for small apartments, and we have a small apartment. Check out how it folds up. Awesome, right?

This crib is the greatest thing ever.  It ran us more than we wanted to pay, but it will definitely fit our lifestyle the best. We have a very small master bedroom and I want to keep Cujo next to me for the first few months. I’m going to try and breastfeed again, so I figured the closer to me the better. Also: I don’t want him to wake up Em. We figured keeping him with us would be best.

Here it is all set up.

I set it up yesterday hoping that maybe the easy workout would send me into labor. No such luck. Not even a contraction.

Here’s how it fits within our room.

We’re really happy with it. We’re hoping our son is too, you know, whenever he decides to join us.

Oh, and if any of my NY friends are reading this and need a crib in about 6 months, let me know. We will gladly gift it to you.

The Mom Dates.

Remember the mom dates I wrote about? I wrote a post about how my therapist suggested I find an in-person support network? Things are going smashingly well there. I have quadrupled my mom friends. I am so stoked about this. I have worked my ass off to put my insecurities aside and just be more open to things and people. And it’s paid off. I’m really looking forward to these new relationships. I can’t even begin to tell you how proud I am of myself. I’m really grateful for these new women in my life.

The Weight Gain.

Y’all, I really could use my body back. I won’t lie. It’s getting really hard to get around. And I will never, ever let myself get this heavy ever again. It’s misery. As soon as I am physically able, I’m going for a jog. I’ve been dreaming about running for months now. I miss it so much. I miss being able to sleep on my stomach. And I miss being able to see my vagina.

I guess that’s it for now. If you want up-to-the-minute updates on laboring and whatnot, I highly suggest following me on Twitter. This is where we’ll likely be posting once things get going. Here’s TobyJoe’s Twitter account as well.

I love Twitter.

38 Weeks. Little Progress.

I visited my doctor today. I’m 50% effaced and 1 centimeter dilated. (Damn that exam hurts.) Kid is still very much floating up in my abdomen, which I hear is normal for second pregnancies. But I have no idea why that would be. How does this guy know that he’s the second kid? Why would a woman’s body keep a second pregnancy higher? Why would a woman’s body know to? This doesn’t make sense to me. But pregnancy doesn’t really make much sense to me, so there’s that.

Emory didn’t drop. Ever. I was induced before the kid even contemplated using his head to help move things along. (Blood pressure problems forced induction last time.)

Nutshell: I’ve no idea when this baby may arrive. I know it won’t be today. I’m grateful it won’t be today since NYC is getting pummeled by snow again. I so don’t want to become one of those women who gives birth in a cab on the 59th Street Bridge. It’s also technically not time yet. But I got it into my head that he might arrive early. I have no idea why.

Also: I’m not ready yet. I mean, I am ready to have my body back, and I am really sick of the acid reflux, but we don’t yet have a bed set up. We still don’t even really know where he’s going to sleep. And we’re not even sure what his name is gonna be.

The second child? Totally different from the first. With Em, we had everything just so, all set and then the kid was late.

This time? We’re not at all prepared. Yet, we totally are in the sense that we now know they don’t break.

But I may break over the next couple of weeks.

But What If All the Villagers Work Full Time?

Today’s therapy session went well. Although, I really have no idea what “well” means when it comes to therapy. Basically, she got to know me better. We discussed the way I felt after Emory was born. We discussed the miscarriage and how that experience changed me. We discussed infertility. We discussed how I feel about introducing another person to Emory, how I feel about having another child at all. Everything went smoothly, as expected. But at the very end of our session she said something that has me thinking long and hard.

“I’m worried about your lack of a support network.” She said. “You need support, live support.”

“How do I go about doing that?” I asked, more to myself than to her.

“Well, there are ways.”

Are there? I thought. Because I’m not so sure.

I’ve been here before—the weeks and months following the birth of Em, the fact that I had no one to talk to during the day. I would watch the sun rise on one side of our railroad apartment and then set on the other, ignoring the fact it was overhead all day long. I just waited. For what? I had no idea. But I waited for something.

Today it occurred to me that this lack of a “support network” is what got me into trouble the last time. I simply didn’t have one, leaving me isolated. I was/am a SAHM. Most all other parents in this neighborhood work. It’s that simple. I don’t know the exact percentage of mothers here who work, but given the number of nannies I’m often surrounded by, I know that we are a very, very small minority. I’m guessing maybe 5% of the parents in this area stay at home with their children. Maybe.

(Please note: I am not complaining about my situation. On the one hand I am very, very lucky. I get to stay home with my kids! My husband makes enough money for me to stay home. That’s awesome. But it has its downside. I’m often alone. I work alone.)

I’m facing isolation again. And she made that abundantly clear today. I will need to work super hard at finding a support network. If I do not, I risk becoming more depressed. THIS is something I can grab onto. This is, I guess, what therapy is all about: taking note of a past problem, accepting it, and then trying to figure out a way to avoid repeating said problem.

My homework is to find a “live” support network. Meaning, not an online one. That means I can’t rely on forums, blogs, things like that. And she’s absolutely right. As amazing as online support is (and has been) for me, it isn’t enough. People need face-time, a voice, the occasional hug.

So, I’m doing some real thinking today, hard thinking. And I know exactly what I need to do and where I need to begin. Today I’m going to start working really hard at getting some bitches fired.

What Does Pre-Labor Feel Like?

Ladies, the days leading up to when you went into labor, how did you feel? Were there any signs—big or small? I never went into labor with Em. I was induced due to high blood pressure. So, I am not really super sure what pre-labor (is there such a thing?) feels like. I have a pretty good idea what full-on contractions feel like, but not much more than that. And I’m curious.

Throw me an educational bone or two?

The Final Stretch

As of yesterday I entered the final month of my pregnancy. I’ve been hesitant to complain about being pregnant. After a loss, and then some infertility, I feel ashamed complaining. But, oh my goodness, am I ever ready to have this baby!

I am up 35 pounds and while I know that’s not too, too horrible. It’s far, far too much for my 36-(almost 37!)-year-old frame to handle. I get winded putting on socks, if I get them on at all. (Sometimes I give up.) I have to take breaks while walking up subway stairs, or any stairs for that matter. I’m unable to put on my own snow boots; Toby Joe always helps. Sleeping is difficult as my hips can’t handle the weight of being on my side. I wake up to shooting pains running up and down each leg.

But ultimately, it’s the lack of breath that beats me down the most. I don’t even have to be doing anything strenuous and I have to take a break because I can’t catch my breath.

The most devastating part of feeling this way is how hard it’s been on my very active 3-year-old. I feel like I’ve become a “lazy mom”, one who can’t physically do what he wants me to do, what most normal people take for granted. And it breaks my heart every day.

Before I got pregnant, I ran almost every day. As a family we’d hit the park and while he and Toby Joe played on the exercise equipment, I ran the track. And he loved watching me run! He’d run alongside me sometimes. It was awesome. And I felt proud. I was the parent showing my son that jogging is fun, exercise is a part of life, and his mother and father are both fairly active people.

Naturally, that’s not all I used to do with him. We’d play all the time. I’d hold him up to do the hand-over-hand monkey bars at the playground. I’d chase him around the gym. I was able to sit on the floor with him or have him on my lap. We played! A lot. All the time.

Now? Forget it. I get winded getting up off the sofa. I can’t read a book to my kid without feeling lightheaded or taking deep breaths. I can’t sit on the floor and have picnics with him because my legs get numb due to poor circulation. I feel so lazy. And he notices this. The other day he said, “When grandma and grandpa get back, can we go to their house? I want daddy to come so we can play bowling and ball together.”

Because mama can’t play bowling right now. Mama gets winded looking at a ball.

Did I mention I can’t get through a children’s book without losing my breath? That’s awful.

But the part that will likely haunt me forever is that sometimes I get frustrated for not being able to do something and I take it out on him. I’m not terrible; I’m not abusive or anything even remotely close to that. But he senses that I’m annoyed. And that makes me so sad. I end up feeling even worse.

I’m ready. I’m ready to get my body back. Being this heavy? It’s misery. And, yes, I realize I’m pregnant and gaining weight is par for the course, but it really shouldn’t be this hard. I should be able to read out loud. I should be able to play with my kid.

Mentally, I’m doing OK. But I have noticed twinges of depression, the same type of depression I had after Em was born and after the miscarriage. It hits me usually right around dusk, which isn’t new for me. Dusk has always been the hardest when I’m blue—has been since I was a kid.

I spoke with my doctor about it last week. She put me in contact with a doctor who specializes in postpartum depression. I am to meet her next week to discuss the way I’m feeling and how to deal with it after the baby is born. She informs me that 50% of women who suffer from PPD experience it during the 3rd trimester. So, I am not alone. And I’m quite pleased with myself that I’m getting help ahead of time. I was given a great big pat on the back from my doctor for even noticing. Because with Em, I didn’t know until it was it was over.

We’ll see how that goes. I haven’t ever spoken to a professional before, so this will be new to me. Her office is in the hospital I am to give birth, which means I’ll be visited by her right after I have the baby. I’m looking forward to that as well.

But ultimately? I’m pretty happy. Life is, overall, going really well. I am still attending culinary school (somehow!). I’m still making lollipops and selling them on Etsy. I rolled out a couple of Valentine’s Day lollipops. A personal favorite of mine is called Pop A Cherry. (Yes! I went there!) It’s champagne on the outside, cherry on the inside. It’s really quite lovely.

We also ordered a new couch! It’s set to arrive right around the same time the baby is. I’m hoping they don’t deliver it the day I go into labor or something. But that will likely be our luck! It may seem silly, but I’m exceptionally happy about this new couch. It’s the little things, people! THE LITTLE THINGS!

Anyway, I hate complaining, which is why I haven’t really updated in a while. I have drafts! But the tone borders on whiney. So, I don’t make them live. (Same old, same old!) But I’m ready to meet this little man. I know that I face a whole lot of sleep deprivation and quite possibly some depression. And I have no idea how Em is going to adjust to the new arrival. There are a great deal of unknowns here! I know the transition from three to four will be tough. But I am ready. And Em needs me, he needs an active parent and he doesn’t quite understand why I lose my breath at the slightest movement.

I hope to have more to say in the next couple of weeks. I wish to document my mental state as well as the birth of our second son. I am hoping to avoid PPD, but my doctor made it abundantly clear that women who suffer from it once, will likely experience it again. So, yeah. I will do my best to write through it and share it with others. That is, after all, why I started this blog: to make people feel less alone. I will do my best.

The 3rd Trimester Rage. Soundtrack: Jazz.

About a week ago, I entered a really bad place and I haven’t been able to leave it. I hate feeling this way. The thing that sucks the most is that I’m aware of the change. I know it’s temporary, yet I can’t do anything to overcome it. This is what I imagine it feels like to have clinical depression. You’re depressed. You get it. But you just can’t snap the hell out of it no matter how hard you try or how many times you belly up and say, “Damn, dudes. I’m depressed!”

Because, damn, dudes. I’m irritable!

One might assume, that just by recognizing one has a problem, one might be freed from said problem. At the very least one might gain some insight as to how one might free oneself from one’s problem. But one can’t. And so one writes about oneself using “one”, and one grows increasingly more annoyed with oneself.

This one has no idea how to shake this ugly feeling.

I’m never comfortable. Even when I sleep my brain is tossing and turning. I have to sleep on my side (obviously), but my IT bands are acting up so I wake up with the worst leg pain and it doesn’t go away until I massage it and that hurts like hell. (For those who have ever run long distances, you are probably well aware of the IT band.)

Here’s the thing, I could deal with all the physical aches and pains if it weren’t for this new miserable mental state.

How do you overcome this grumpy feeling? I can’t even eat a bunch of junk food to drown my sorrows because of the heartburn. You know what I had for dinner last night? Pineapple. A LOT of pineapple. I didn’t get heartburn. But when I awoke at 2 AM to use the toilet (for the 3rd time) I had some of the most intense hunger I’ve ever had. But I knew eating would be a disaster, so I stared at the moon instead. (Which was admittedly awesome. I guess that’s one good thing about not being able sleep for longer than one hour at a time: I got to see the lunar eclipse every hour from beginning to end.)

Earlier today everything came to head. I was listening to Soundcheck on 93.9 and Matt Wilson’s Christmas Tree-O came on. They played a few songs live in the Soundcheck studio. Now, I am by no means a fan of jazz. Some jazz is OK, but most of it just annoys the living shit out of me. But today? This jazz? Oh my goodness, my body just filled with rage—true rage. I can’t imagine this is the reaction jazz musicians are hoping for. And I must be part of a small minority, because if everyone had the visceral feeling I had, the streets would look a lot like 28 Days Later.

If the Soundcheck studio had been nearby, I’d have hobbled my ass over there and screamed at them.

“WHERE’S THE MELODY, JAZZHOLES? YOU CALL THAT MUSIC? I CALL THAT AUDIBLE TORTURE!”

How can anyone play such nonsense and call it music? I was so annoyed. And I needed an answer. I needed to know how anyone could call that music.

How is that noise music?

And then I realized I’d taken crazy up to level 11, possibly even 12. And while I would have liked to blamed the crazy on all that jazz, I knew it wasn’t entirely jazz’s fault.

Yeah, this isn’t really about jazz, middle of the night hunger or heartburn. It’s not about eating pineapple for dinner because pineapple is a wonderful thing. This isn’t about taking note of a glorious eclipse. This is about me realizing I’m not myself at all and that I probably won’t be myself again for another 8 weeks. I have to learn how to deal with it somehow. I have to learn how to cope with me somehow.

Just, please, for the next 8 weeks don’t play any fucking jazz.

I PASSED!

Not only did I pass my gestational diabetes test, but I did so every hour by quite a bit. Awesome, right?

So, here is where I confess to something.

I did something before the 1-hour test that may have messed with my numbers a bit. When I admitted this to my mom and husband, both said, “You’re a moron!”

You ready?

The morning of my 1-hour glucose test, I may have consumed a fruit tart I had made in pastry class. Said fruit tart was made with homemade pastry cream. (The kind with a lot of sugar, cream and butter.) It was also made with flour and butter and fruit. I know! That’s probably pretty sugary, right? I had that at 7:30 AM.

But to my credit, I asked and read up on this. Everywhere I looked said NO NEED TO FAST before the 1-hour test. Even the nurse told me I didn’t have to fast. In fact, everything I found suggested one eat normally. So I thought, it’d be fine.

I also had a little bit of cereal at 9 AM. That’s more normal for me. So I thought that’d be OK as well.

Drank the orange soda at 10:30 and by 11:30 I was ready to go.

I’m thinking that had something to do with it. While everyone and everything said I could eat normally, I don’t normally eat fruit tarts for breakfast.

However, I asked the nurse about whether or not eating beforehand would have messed with my numbers and she said probably not. So who knows? Maybe I’m not that big of a moron.

Anyway. I passed. I am pleased. I’ve been eating really well since I got the news that I failed. I’ve been eating a low carb diet, barely any sugar. But I think I earned some freaking cake. Or pie!

OMG! I have class tonight and we’re making croissants. I will have two.

Thank goodness.

Now I must work on the anemia.