Shoo Fly

I've read a lot about being pregnant. What to eat. What to do, sing, read and buy for baby's growth. And I've read that he feels what I feel. That my moods effect him.
But I'm starting to think my little Baby the Hut may be influencing me. Instead of getting "The Dropsies" my dexterity has increased. Instead of being forgetful, my organizational and cleaning skills are boosted.
Like last night. I'm lying in bed after having eaten my Diabetically approved diet food when a large black fly buzzed into my dimly lit bedroom. He flew past me and landed above my head. He hopped and veered toward the glowing tv showing some Indie drama I rented from Netflix. His course then changed and he was playing chicken with my head. Straight toward me he charged, hell-bent on collision - and grossing me out.
I quickly leaned right and tossed a straightened karate-chop hand in his general direction.
He died in my floor.
I had karate-chopped a fly in mid-air.
I'm the new Karate Kid.
Or Baby Harry is and I his chubby puppet.
WAX ON! WAX OFF!!!

Linebackers and Porn Stars

Baby Harry the IV is a-growin'. Even with me watching my fat intake, counting carbs and eating more protein than I ever did before - he still rivals that of most lightweight bowling balls - that is embedded in the right side of my tummy. :)

At the last Ultrasound the tech, who had very little personality, was like "Well, there's his boy parts!" That's the first thing we see filling up the large screen mounted at the end of the room. My baby boy is not shy about his genitalia. Kinda like "look what I got!!!" while the whole time keeping his tiny little hands glued to each side of his head. She then started measuring his belly, his head, his legs.

"33 Weeks" popped up on the screen. "He's measuring all over at 33 weeks --- and four pounds 13 oz." I was shocked. Two weeks ago at my last appointment at the Perinatal Center for my Gestational Diabetes - he was 3 pounds, 15 oz. He'd gained almost a pound in two weeks.

Yup - that's my boy for sure. I'm at 30 weeks - he's at 33 - an overachiever already!

"He's gonna be a Linebacker..." I heard Harry wonder from beside me.

"He's gonna be a BIG Linebacker," said the Ultrasound Tech while bouncing on my belly to encourage my already-stubborn child to move his hands.

So while I'm fighting with sometimes painful leg wraps for my Lymphedema, needles and pills for my G. Diabetes and sleepless nights with sparse fitful dreams of unattainable toilets - my baby grows. And grows. And grows.

Later that week Harry curled up on top of my stomach and cooed to my swollen belly parts. "Daddy loves you, Daaaaady looooooves youuuuu!" he said while rubbing in circles to which Baby Harry responded - by kicking him in the face. A lot.

It was sweet revenge.

Pretty Ugly

Those are my legs. Yup. Now many of you will only see slightly chubby gams stuck in what are called "Stockinettes" - but what you SHOULD be seeing is distinction. There are actual feet there. Ankles. Shins. Calves.

After being a Lymphedema patient and suffering since childhood with swollen feet and beyond I am finally getting the treatment I should have sought years ago - had I known it was out there.

The first step is taking my hardening, swollen limbs and putting on the Stockinettes. Size Large. Eeek. But really - they were that bad. And I had begin to build up scar tissue. Over this Stockinette will go toe gauze (weaved in and out so only my sparkly blue toes show through) A layer of fluffy wrap, two pieces of foam wrap on either side of my leg, two different sizes of Ace Bandages and three different sizes of Compression Bandages finish up the equation.

And it hurts.

Oh boy does it freakin' hurt.

The first time (in the picture above) they took off the layers - I was greeted with a horrific sensation of freshly burned flesh - only UNDER the skin. This was due to the immense amount of stretched skin - shrinking.

I've heard it hurts to be pretty - and it's flippin' torture to be ugly, too. :)

Friday I was re-wrapped. And I still can't put on my "shoes" (oh - they be awful blue and white and velcro monsters) by myself. But the new pain - coming from my even tighter wrappings, is unbearable. I can't sleep. Can't walk. But I'm told it will all be worth it.

Ya know - to have ankles again.

:)

Pregnant and Smoking!!!

I had another meltdown last night. To the extreme. But in my defense - my needle slipped. my $300 per refill medication spurted, along with a good amount of blood, and I stuck myself repeatedly trying to catch it. So I held my bleeding abdomen and cried choking, blinding sobs that made my nose run and my mascara head for my chin(s).

Cursing my tiny hands, I managed to sniffle, snort and bind up the courage to re-inject my insulin.

And I thought things couldn't get worse.

But today, when leaving work, I decided to go through the automatic car wash since my white Acadia looked, well, black. I sat in line for 30 minutes and waited patiently(ish) as each car went through and paid too much for their "Wave Automatic Wash." It was close to six p.m. by the time I pulled through the dryers and decided to go to Arby's to get a sandwich. Sitting in yet another line I noticed that the car in front of me was smoking really bad.

"Geez - get a new exhaust, Peeps," I said to myself as I rolled up my window.

Finally, it was my turn and I pulled to the window to get my sandwich.

"Do you need any sauces?" the man asked me.

"I uh - huh?" I was distracted. The smoke was still in front of my car - but the old Buick was gone. "Um -yeah - ketchup please." I was mesmerized. Large clouds of smoke were coming from the front of my Acadia like an old man on a park bench.

Now, I'm not a mechanic and I never claimed to have oodles of car knowledge - but I was pretty sure that the massive amounts of smoke - not a good thing.

So I got my sandwich and pulled over.

Quickly, I popped the hood latch and turned off the car and started feeling under the hood to find the release.

Which I couldn't find. I called Harry.

"Hello darling - where is the hood release?" I said (or something like this equally sweet and not at all demanding-like).

"Um - why?'

A nice couple from NC who were stretching their legs helped me find the latch release. "It's your radiator," the man said and then apologized for smoking around me when he found out I was pregnant. How sweet. :)

Long story short - it's my radiator. The fan isn't kicking on. Moses, the local dealership we buy from, came down and followed me back to the Service Station. I was given a tiny red Toyota to drive and I came home, clutching my cold Roast Beef and purse to my chest and finally, two hours after leaving work, I arrived home.

And couldn't get the key out of the ignition.

I was close to bursting into tears - again. For the third night in a row. Like a babyhead.

But instead I laughed the laugh of the insane and just kept tugging on the key. Finally after holding my breath, crossing my eyes, turning back on the car, moving the gear shift and then quickly yanking the key out - I was free.

And starved.

So I made it through the night - so far - without a meltdown (if you don't count my radiator) and without shedding a single tear (so far).

"Did you get home okay, then," Harry said when he called later.

"Yef, I ho okey," I said with a mouthful of food shoved in my piehole.

"Okay. Just making sure. Do you want a new car? Or mine? You can have my Escalade if you want it, you know that," he offered.

A smile, and ketchup, spread across my face.

It felt odd - it felt different - it felt - right. :)

Eat This, Not That - or That - or That...

I was officially diagnosed with Gestational Diabetes right before Christmas last year and since then- well - it's been like the armpit of hell on me. Not only do I have to grab my fat like a perv on a subway, but I have to inject it with insulin five times a day along with watching my carb-intake, staying away from refined sugar, taking about six pills a day and testing my blood sugar five times a day.

In a word? SUCKY.

I plan, pre-plan and constantly dwell on the "What will I eat?" subject - and, honestly, I'm to the point where I'd rather NOT eat than consume one more cheese and cracker snack.

Just when I think I get the hang of this rather complicated diet-balance - I get an email from the lady at the Perinatal Center berating me for eating Graham Crackers and Milk for a bedtime snack. A snack which I thoroughly enjoy since it doesn't make me gag while eating it like most of the other "meals" I have to choke down.

If it weren't for the (largely) flourishingly life in my belly - I'd have converted to anorexia as a New Year's Resolution.

Apparently, even though "Graham Crackers and 8oz of milk" is a listed and recommended snack in the information I got FROM their own nutritionist, they now say it is not a good snack idea.

So I had a minor meltdown last night.

Like some food-starved Jenny Craig survivor, I clutched the handles of my stainless steel fridge and just sobbed while my baby kicked me for being such a wuss.

They were more tears of frustration than out of want of a corndog or an Icee but c'mon- I'm hormonal and no one likes to be told they're wrong when they are trying SO HARD to be right. I was framed. Misinformed. Pissed as all hell.

So I cried while doling out some Dole pineappled into a measuring cup and sniffled while scooping out some nasty cottage cheese and sat down at the kitchen table to cry and eat a snack that I didn't want, wasn't hungry for and wasn't happy about eating.

The things we do for our children...

The good news and silver lining?

Baby Harry the IV is growing like a weed and is happy and healthy. He is a bit like Baby the hut and at 28 weeks - he is 3lbs and 15oz. Off the charts. But still -healthy. My sugar - though it spikes occasionally - is stabilizing and my weight is down five pounds from pre-pregnancy.

But I'm still mad.

So I look at the latest Baby Harry picture and I calm down. Some. :) That's the cord in front of his lips that looks like a Fu Man Chu mustache and the shadow of his ever-present hand over his head is making it look like he has Hitler hair. Not really sure where his nose is - hopefully he'll grow into it. And it will look like Harry's. Not mine. Lord help me - let him have Harry's pretty nose! :)

On a last, semi-related note - I quit my job. I put in my notice two weeks ago and decided to focus on my health instead. Unfortunately, I got suckered into working part-time and since my "last day" of Friday I've been at work every day. :)

Sigh. Only a few more months to go.

And then things will calm down.

Right?

Righ?!

:)

Riddle me This...

Is it better to feel guilty over leaving a job because you'll miss who you work with? Or stay at a job you love even if you aren't able to perform at 110% as expected- causing the beloved coworkers undue stress???
I may have just answered my own question on that 'un...

;)

HaPpY NeW YeAr!!!!