Baby Harry - Cha-Cha-Chia!

He's getting bigger. Growing like a Chia Pet on Miracle Grow! Six pounds, six ounces.

I'm at 34 weeks. He's at 36.

At this rate - he's going to pop out a toddler!

Eep!

In other baby news - he's passing all of his Non-stress tests/Fetal Monitoring with flying colors (basically he's rewarded for kicking the crap out of me) and continues to do well with getting all of his fetal development points too. So far so good!

:)

HITLER!!! HITLER PANTS!!!

Since my being uber pregnant, sick, diabetic and wrapped like King Tut from the knees down - to say that romance was put on the back burner would be an understatement. Romance has gone from "maybe tomorrow" to "maybe in the summertime."

In order to try to jumpstart the need for romantic interludes seeing as how new babies and healing girly parts tend to put a damper on such things for some time, I decided to take charge one late weekend night. Our downstairs bathroom is right off the TV room and our Apple sits right on the other side. So while Harry was surfing on the net I went to the bathroom and, since my mobility is somewhat limited (as is my libido), I just left my pants and pantaloons pooled around my ankles as I shuffled to his side.

He was laughing hysterically at some You Tube video showing Hilter's supposed response to the tragic Ipad. He glanced up at me and pointed at the screen,: "This is HILARIOUS!"

"Uh huh," was my response as I continued to feel a cold breeze assault my netherregions. "Is it funny, darling?" I leaned against his arm.

He looked back at me and grinned. Oblivious.

"Fine!" I huffed and started scooting toward the couch while trying not to stumble around my pants still pooled at my stockinged feet.

"Wait - what?" he looked over at my retreating half-naked form. "Why are your pants off?"

"Just let it be duly noted that you chose HITLER over nookie. HITLER!" I yelled while yanking my pants to their rightful upright position.

"But, wait! I didn't know - I didn't see - I --- You really should watch this video - it's hilarious!"

"No," I said, stubbornly.

A few hours later we were going to bed. I was still smarting over my snub so as I was getting dressed - I dropped my drawers again, stuck my butt in the air and yelled "HITLER! HITLER PANTS!"

You'd think this game would be old by now.

But it's not.

It hasn't rekindled any inklings of romantic notions - but we do reassure one another that our girl and boy parts are still there through brief flashes and war cries of "HILTER!"

Oh what our neighbors must think...

Fashion Faux Pas and Fears

"I like your shorts."

I look down, notice my giant Harlequin print granny panties and looked back at my loving husband.

He smiled sweetly. "They're nice shorts."

And somehow he's still alive today to tell the tale.

Since my uterus has been invaded by a future Chuck Norris wannabe, my fashion choices have gone from limitless to limited - and not in a good way. I have stretch pants that can be tucked into my bra. I have panties that can be tucked under my chin and I have pads that now go in my bra and not to create "definition" or lift. My legs are still wrapped in the most wonderfulness of fake-fleshy peach bands - up to my knee and are padded all around with gauze, cotton, foam and sock-like material. In 2.5 weeks I will have three sets of knee highs that will be "Suntan" and made out of burlap sacks (at least that's what they feel like to me) and it's sad how much this will be a welcome change for me. Mainly because I will then be able to wear real shoes again (I had to attend my Baby Shower last weekend with plastic bags on each foot to protect me from the snow). They will arrive just in time for me not being able to bend over to lace them up. Yay! :)

I now go to six to seven appointments a week for the baby, my Gestational Diabetes (I'm up to taking 140 units a day of insulin. My track marks continue to be the envy of heroin addicts everywhere) and my legs. I am now busier than I was when I actually worked for a living. Now I work just to keep living. BUT - even though my health continues to be tested (sugars increasing due to big baby, UTI's that keep popping up, leg swelling keeps creeping in through the wraps...) Baby Harry continually gets good reviews. He's big - but developing well and progressing along - quickly and a little faster than I had anticipated.

Harry and I have (reluctantly) signed up for a Birthing Class on Saturday. I'm sure it will be educational, informative, long and will do enough to flip me out that I will probably never want to go through the actual birthing process.

Too late on that one, huh?

So - wish me luck and that I'll remain conscious throughout the video selections. How embarrassing would it be to be HUGELY pregnant and NOT be able to watch the videos of a woman giving birth? Something I'm going to have to do - eventually!

X-Ray Visions

Getting up at the crack of dawn, injecting myself with multiple units of insulin, grabbing a quick balanced breakfast and picking up my doting mother - all before 8am was not my idea of fun. But I still arrived right on time for my leg-rewrapping.

All of this seems very ho-hum until you factor in the fact that I was up every two hours the night before to rewrap my left leg which was THROBBING in pain. I can barely bend due to my big ol' baby belly but I had to figure out how to pull my leg up and carefully wrap my own foot, ankle and calf with layers of flesh-colored compression bandages. I cried. I screamed at them. But nothing helped. They ached - and I was all alone. With no help. I was the picture of perfection of pitifulness...

So as I hobbled into the Therapist's office my mother jumped the gun, "Can we talk about maintenance? She is going to need to do something else..." I could've kissed her.

Rebecca, my Lymphedema Therapist agreed that it may be easier just to see how I do this week and then go and have me measured for compression hose garments (sooo pretty! Ugh) by the end of the week. I can be re-evaluated after Baby Harry's arrival.

Afterwards we went for a Gestational Diabetes check up and giggled and laughed as Baby Harry, now 5lbs and 3oz, hid his face from the Tech's probing wand. But when she went to check on his organs - he was more than ready to show his junk to her. So I was given 4-D images of his "turtle" instead of his chubby face. Harry was happy to find out that his namesake already has hair since he, as a child, sprouted fuzz sometime around the 2 year mark and was very cue ballish before that. I came out with enough hair to braid so I wasn't too worried.

After slightly raising my insulin (yucky) - I was sent on my way so I dropped mom off and went home for a well-deserved nap.

One hour and not nearly enough z's later I was rudely awaken by the Perinatal Center: "Your test is showing fluid in your system. You have to go to Ob-Triage and have them check your lungs. Are you having trouble breathing?"

"I have a five pound baby laying on my lungs. Yes - I have trouble breathing," I said - in a sleep-like stupor.

"No, you need to go," she said.

"Fine," I said and gathered my things, and mother, and went to the local hospital.

After navigating the Labyrinth halls of Cabell Huntington, we finally find ourselves in "Labor and Delivery."

I wanted to run.

Although I was wary - I did one x-ray and, after three hours of baby heart monitoring, I was free to go with no fluid to be found.

It was scary.

And now I worry my baby will be affected by the Radioactive X-ray. Will he glow in the dark? Have X-ray Vision? Telekinesis?

Seriously - if I was a pregnant horse on a farm - they'd have already shot me.