Breaking the Cycle - Raising a Daughter With A Healthy Self-Image

One of the bloggers I have recently started following, Anne Collier of Net Family News, distributed a link to an article from slate.com addressing a "sexting" case in which a couple of 15 year old girls were caught having sent provocative pictures of themselves via text message and a group of boys were forwarding them to each other's phones.  The issue was not so much that teens are experimenting with sexual exploitation - we all went to high school - but that the judge in the case was threatening to convict the girls of child pornography which would technically classify them as sex offenders.  I thought it was an interesting article and found it unsettling on a multiple levels. Two days later, I encountered another instance involving the distribution of provocative photographs, this one a bit closer to home, involving an acquaintance.  So, I'm now looking at this from the perspective of a woman, of a woman who has always struggled with body image issues, of a woman approaching thirty, of a woman whose body has become a completely amazing and foreign enigma, and ... what really kept me up last night.... of the mother of a daughter.

Don't get me wrong.  I'm all about free speech and free love.  I think the human body is a beautiful thing and I am far, far, far from prudish.  HOWEVER, I'm pretty upset over this.  I spent most of yesterday thinking about this in the context of how do we keep our daughter from exclusively linking her self worth with her body - from measuring her value by the numbers on the scale or by her bra size, or by her pants size while still instilling a well-rounded sense of confidence?  How do I keep her from instinctively using her body as a tool to get attention and affection verses her mind, her heart or her spirit?  In the moment, upset and not knowing what else to do, I had a long conversation with Moon Pie in which I told her over and over and over again how amazing and wonderful and beautiful she is.  With out much else to go on, I figured I'd start there.  I have no idea what she looks like, I don't really care... beauty is relative and simply, I guess its never too early to start building her self confidence... but surely there's more I can do.

Then I started thinking about myself and my own struggles as a woman with body image issues.  I would tell you, this moment, right now, without flinching, that I have never been "skinny" a day in my life.  I will look you straight in the face and tell you this, knowing full well that I have about eight pairs of  size 2 and size 4 pants in my closet that I was wearing three years ago that I can't bring myself to throw away.  Three years ago I was still desperately trying to lose weight obsessed with 'just 10 more pounds'.   I could bore you with all of the dysfunctional things that I have done over the course of my life in an effort to make myself thin but none of them are unique, you've heard them all and seen them all, we've all seen the after school specials, body image demons are nothing if not cliche in today's society.  Honestly, it hasn't been until right now, with the third trimester of pregnancy, that I have really come to understand my body and see it as a whole verses a waist vs. hips ratio and something that is "almost there".  Honestly, I have gained more weight with pregnancy than I had planned but I am also doing everything in my power to have a healthy baby so, much to my surprise, I'm really not bothered by the number on the scale.  The two things I am looking forward to over the course of the next 12 months is a renewed commitment to exercise to develop a strong body (verses being able to see my hip bones jutting out when I lay down while dealing with dull, thinning hair) and implementing the nutritional information I have adapted with the gestational diabetes into a lifelong, healthy, dietary plan.  That sets me on the right path and I feel good about the head space I am in right now with regards to my own self-image.... ironically, probably better than I have ever felt in my life.  But what about our daughter?

It's no secret that my side of the family is not setting any metabolism records and its also no secret that Hunter's side of the family does not have the most healthy dietary regimen.  This could make for a very unhealthy combination and a life-long struggle.  Not to mention the fact that with the development of gestational diabetes both she and I are now 60% more likely to develop type II diabetes later in life.  I fear that we're potentially starting behind the eight ball when it comes to body image issues.  So, my goal is to find some magical way of reinforcing a healthy life style without making it about size.  I know this means that, as a mother, I can't be crash dieting or complaining about how I look and feel and that I also can not micromanage everything that she puts into her mouth or her level of physical activity.  My hope is, that with the proper environment, she will make healthy decisions of her own volition and that we (yes, darling, I know you're reading this and that means you too)will set a very strong example.

My other concern and challenge as the mother of a daughter is to keep her from having a skewed perception of the value of her physique - a.k.a. sending provocative pictures to freshman boys to get attention, love, or affection.  I remember high school. Trying to keep sex from being a focal point at that time in a person's life is laughable but if we can just keep it in a healthy context and keep it from becoming consuming then I think we will have succeeded.  Hunter and I both agree that the importance of having a well informed child very much outweighs the awkwardness that this education can occasionally bring.  However, in addition, if we can somehow, magically, teach well-rounded intimacy that is not exclusively physical, maybe... just maybe.... she'll fall in love with a guy who reads Neruda to her on their second date instead of the guy who keeps eying her entirely too short skirt.

Looking back on my own struggles, seeing the women that I know and love struggle all of these years and living in a society that is completely addicted to and obsessed with an unobtainable image of the perfect female form at any cost just breaks my heart.   As I write this, I think about the women that I know today who seem truly happy and they are intelligent, creative, quick-witted, talented and stylish.  They are women who love to read books and write journals and knit and cook and run and do yoga.  They are single, engaged, in relationships, and married.  Every single one of them are absolutely gorgeous, elegant and classy.  Every one of them tend to be fully clothed when they leave the house and I doubt if any of them of them looks like a Maxim cover when she steps out of the shower.  I have no earthly idea how much any of them weigh because we rarely discuss it and these confident, well-rounded, exquisite, happy women are the ones that I hope will help me to raise a daughter who is confident, well-rounded, exquisite and happy herself.  

Nothing exciting... a cold, a dislocated rib and a broken dishwasher... just your average weekend.

Y'all are going to have to forgive me.  I've been a little all over the map lately.  We can blame that on the hormones, the absence of sugar, or whatever, I don't really care what we blame it on... pick an excuse I have plenty!!!!!!!  The end of last week was one for the books, for sure.  I ended up completely overcome with *A-N-O-T-H-E-R* massive cold.  Honestly, with the exception of maybe 4 or 5 days I've been sick since day one of my 3rd trimester.  I so wanted to be one of those women who just totally Zen's out and just "loves being pregnant."  I was all good for trimesters 1&2.  Then I became one of those pregnant women who starts every sentence with "you're not going to believe what this child has done to me now."  Oh-well.  At least we know that I'm not all of a sudden going to decide to birth an entire herd of children.  Back to my cold.  This was the sort of cold where your body pretty much feels okay except for the fact that you might as well not have a nose.  There are no sniffles or sore throat or cough, just a complete absence of one of two very critical breathing options. My sinuses were completely sealed shut.  Occasionally, one of my nostrils would just start dripping liquid but because my face is scaly and raw and numb, this was difficult to predict and catch.  We're really talking about a total absence of grace here.  Because my nose just up and quit my face, there was no sniffing or blowing, just this delightful spontaneous dripping and desperate clamoring for a Kleenex/paper towel/roll of toilet paper/sleeve/whatever.

The most predominant effect of this phenomenon was to piss me off and make me whiny.  Then came the rib situation.  I'm sure most of you have heard me mumbling in protest about my child's foot in my ribs and how uncomfortable said foot placement could be.  Also on Wednesday, this discomfort morphed from a consistent annoyance into full on chronic agony.  I asked our birthing instructor for advice and she told me to go hang from some monkey bars.... Really?  Monkey Bars?  I was so scouting out playgrounds for monkey bars.  I was hanging on door frames, I was hanging on Hunter... whatever, I was game.  It didn't work.  Thursday, I asked my Dr. about it.   She laughed at me and said "tell her to move!".  Cute.  So finally, I did what no pregnant woman should ever do.... I Googled 'how to remove baby's foot from my ribs'.  LOW AND BEHOLD the first 10 things that came up involved physical therapy.

**long pause** 

Duh.    

So by Friday morning, I had not slept since Tuesday and I was confined from the bed until pain became so unbearable that had to pace around the house trying to re-adjust my torso. I called the physical therapist who had helped me with some S.I. joint issues earlier in my pregnancy who specializes in women's therapy and pregnancy.  This woman, Ashely Nelson, is a goddess, a saint, and my personal hero.  I made an emergency appointment to see her Friday afternoon, walked into her office, she looked at me and immediately said "Wow, um, yeah - I'd imagine that hurts, you've got a dislocated rib sticking out of your back.".

My darling little girl dislodged a rib.  God love her.... from what I understand, that's not super easy to do!  She's either really really tall or really really strong.... or both.  So with some serious manipulation (Ashley), banging (Ashley), cussing (Me) and praying (Me), Ashley and I got my rib back in place and tapped up.  If nothing else, our efforts did clear my sinuses for a few minutes!!!  So I kick started my weekend bruised as hell from our efforts to re-align my rib, but you know what, I'll take a little bruising over chronic agony ANY DAY.

Also, while all of this was happening our dishwasher stopped cleaning our dishes.  Ordinarily this wouldn't bother me all that much but a dear friend reminded me that I would soon be doing lots of dishes and sterilizing lots of...well... everything.  Even so, this has really been a minor irritant of late (in comparison...) until today when I started calling around to have the thing fixed.  I called Sears a total of 3 times and had Hunter call once all in an effort to try and understand our two payment options.  First of all, out of all four phone calls none of our customer service reps spoke English as a primary language.  That's totally fine, unless I am asking open-ended questions that require a legitimate dialogue.  To the best of my understanding there were two payment options, both of which made me feel like I was signing up for some sort of seriously creepy life insurance.  Something inside of me kept saying - "if you sign up for this appointment, you might still have unsterilized baby bottles there's a possibility that they will completely drain your 401-K.... red flag... red flag."   Neither plan allowed me to get a new dishwasher if I changed my mind. Seriously?  How can you tell me 'No' if I want a new dishwasher!?!?!  How does that even work? I'm pregnant.  I'm incapable of making a decision or committing to what shoes I want to wear today.  I need legitimate options.  I NEED to be able to change my mind!

An hour later, I actually found the manual for the dishwasher.  I called the Maytag company.  This time, instead of being transferred over seas, I spent literally (by this point yes - I really am timing) 25 minutes trying playing 20 questions with a computerized voice.  Trying to read off your phone number with no nose to anon-human is just really really challenging.  "Dide.. One.. Dide- etc. etc. (should be 919)"  and then with all of the yes or no questions I'm eventually screaming "Doh!!!!" into the phone thinking, under different circumstances, I'm sure this would be comical.  Finally, the computer gave up on me and put me on the phone with Taylor, a sweetheart with a southern drawl.  I gotta tell you, Taylor was no real help but just hearing his live, human, southern voice really made my day.  Taylor inadvertently reminded me that we were given a 1 year home warranty when we purchased our house and that our dishwasher is covered!!!!  I was so elated by this news that I didn't even care that I had wasted the last 3 hours of my day.

SO if we're keeping pace:
While the size of my baby looks great and she doesn't qualify a 'monster baby' in physique, I have taken to referring to her as 'monster baby' because, well, the child dislocated my freaking rib!  (Hunter gets very upset when I refer to our sweet daughter as monster.  Hunter, however,  has never had a dislocated anything.  Yet...)  However, I have found the best Physical Therapist in the whole wide world so its all good.

Round 17 of the never-ending-head-cold  seems to be wanning.  I've been almost able to breathe out of my left nostril for going on 17 hours now.  There is a light at the end of the tunnel.

Thanks to a very cool Realtor and sweet Taylor from Maytag, our dishwasher should be fixed for the more than reasonable price of $60.00.  No one was injured in the scheduling of this service.

Nursery is almost finished (pics this week!) and we should be able to start working on the yard in the next week or two (its our first honest to goodness yard, I'm excited).

Spring is coming and sometime in the next 5-7 weeks, so is Moon Pie.

Life. Is. Good.

A Darker Shade of Gray

Not to state the obvious, but the title of this blog is "Shades of Gray." The purpose of this blog is stated as "my effort to make sense out of a world that think's its black and white but never can be... etc. etc." - an exploration of space in-between, if you will.

In general, my posts lean towards the positive, the comical, the sentimental, and occasionally the lightly sardonic. However, let's face it. I wouldn't have a blog called "Shades of Gray" if I didn't occasionally go through periods in my life that were a bit darker (otherwise this blog would be titled Sunshine and Puppies). In the past, this has been a significant issue for me (us). There have been periods where depression has had a rather severe impact on my life, my health and the lives of my loved ones.

I think we all have periods of darkness and periods of light. The goal, which is easier for some than others, is to keep the darkness from suffocating and the light from blinding. For me, it has been almost two years since I've really struggled with depression in a way that has left me feeling, in hindsight, terrified. Its been a gradual process, painstakingly gradual really, but over the years, with maturity, love, support and a little perspective, I've (we've) managed to get a decent handle on my emotions or brain chemistry, or whatever you want to call it.

(side note on the 'us' and the 'we' above - I have an incredible spouse/partner who has been with me through every single up and down as though he were experiencing them himself... He has done so with a level of patience, understanding, unwavering clarity, and devotion that defies comprehension. Without him.. well, there is no 'without him'.)

One of the key components in this delicate balance between light and dark has been to recognize the path that you're on, acknowledge it and find some diversions to keep you from going too far down the path and getting lost. One of those outlets for me is and has always been writing. Its undoubtedly a form of therapy - an anonymous ear whose soul purpose is to listen while I talk myself into making sense again. All this said, I'm using you as an outlet and a diversion today... its been a rough couple of weeks.

So, I mentioned above, we feel like we have a better handle on my depression than ever before. I think we understand it better, we have more coping mechanisms and we're better equipped to deal with the blah days. For me, this was a critical component in our decision to go ahead and have a child. Don't get me wrong, its not like the thought process was "hey, I'll never be sad again, lets have a baby and live happily ever after." It was more "I am confident that I am emotionally equipped and stable enough to be responsible for the emotional health and well being of another person forever - wow... holy crap that's huge." With that realization, I knew that there would be new emotional challenges on a level of which I was incapable of even beginning to comprehend. She's not even here yet and I'm getting a taste of that dynamic.

Gestational Diabetes (yes - I'm back to the GD Dilemma), in the scheme of life and pregnancy, is really NOT A HUGE DEAL. Its not. I'm not just saying that. I know this and tell myself this hundreds of times a day, I could be dealing with issues so very much more significant and severe. At the end of the day I have phenomenal medical care, this baby is being monitored twice a week and all of the odds say everything will be absolutely fine. The problem is, I have been tasked with the responsibility of monitoring this dilemma and keeping it in check and I am starting to feel like I have been given a completely impossible, truly insurmountable task. Not a good feeling under any circumstances - but really not a good feeling when the well being of your own helpless child is involved.

When your boss gives you a completely impossible, truly insurmountable task, chances are you start muttering obscenities, call your friends/family, vent about what an unreasonable (-insert your favorite derogatory name here) he/she is, suck it up, do your best, and at the end of the day it works out. Other than elevated blood pressure, loss of sleep, and perhaps an unexpected deficit in the liquor cabinet, no harm, no foul. When its your unborn child, however.... well for one thing, you can't go near the liquor cabinet. You feel like its life and death, there's no one to blame, there's no one to call names and no one who can really step in and help you own it. Maybe its just because I tend to be a little type-A and can be a little extreme but at the end of the day its like having a gun pointed at your child and you either pass or fail.

Okay - that is a bit extreme, no one is going to die here, but let me explain the analogy. I am maintaining an unbelievably restricted diet. I pour over nutrition facts, I keep a calculator in the kitchen, I keep a timer in my pocket, I have a color coded spreadsheet that would blow your mind. I analyse every drop of sustenance that I put into my mouth trying to find the balance between getting enough sustenance for the two of us and keeping my blood sugar low enough to keep her healthy. Every meal feels like a gamble. One hour after each meal I prick my finger, take my glucose levels, hold my breath and for the past two and a half weeks, 75 percent of the time, I have failed. I can not tell you how much stress and anxiety I have developed as a result of this insanity. Now, my logical mind says - you're eating a perfect diet and your blood sugar is still high, its not your fault. I finally came to terms with that this week, threw up my hands, acknowledged that I had done everything I could have done, and went on a low dose of medication. My doctor assured me it was safe for the baby, its only 8 weeks, it will lower my stress and anxiety (which is also good for the baby) its the right thing to do... not... my... fault. This morning I woke up and realized that I was in ketosis. For those of you who did not spend part of the last decade on the Atkins diet, that essentially means (in terms of pregnancy) I'm not getting enough sustenance. I'm eating what I'm supposed to be eating, my blood sugar is still high, and now, I'm essentially starving... all at the same time.

So I have a call into the doctor. I have my second weekly appointment this afternoon with an RN to make sure Moon Pie's heart rate, etc. are perfect. I know we will find a good solution for what I now refer to exclusively and not-so-affectionately as the GD Dilemma. I know, 8 weeks from now this will all seem like a distant memory and a whole lot of stress over nothing. Right now though, it just feels all consuming.

The point of all of this (if you're still with me, that is) is I just needed to vent.... to vent and vent and vent. I need to unload and not be consumed. I need to drop this burden off in the ether, take a hot shower, and go spend an hour in a local book store, treat myself to an exceptional cup of decaf (they do exist, you just have to really seek them out) and keep myself from diving down the rabbit hole.

I do, however, want to end on a slightly more positive note. So we had birthing class again last night. Hunter will be at a conference for the last session of class and won't be able to attend. We were trying to figure out what was on the syllabus for that class and whether or not he would miss the tour of the hospital. All of a sudden his eyes got as big as saucers and he got this panicked look on his face and said "Is there a test that night!?!?!? Am I going to miss a test?!?!". As if they're not going to let us birth the baby if we fail birthing class??? You'd have to know Hunter to really appreciate how hysterical this actually was. If you do know my brilliant, over achieving, uber competitive, professional test-taking, geneticist husband, you will understand why I started cackling and almost fell out of my chair. I'm pretty sure he gets to audit this one. Hope you enjoyed the chuckle and thank you for listening. I'm going to go eat a half a banana with a 1/2 a tablespoon of some all natural peanut butter for a total of 15 carbs, take a super hot shower and point myself in the direction of that book store.

So very much love.

Birthing Class Part I (**Warning some content and language may be slightly graphic - but absolutely nothing compared to the real thing**)

Me again! This is 3 days in a row.... can you believe it? It's because I'm sleep deprived and oxygen deprived and therefore feel the need to prattle on endlessly into the ether. The cold is better but I'm pretty sure its stagnated. I'm not "balled-up-in-a-helpless-whining mass" sick, but I'm maintaining "just sick enough to be pissed off about it". You know, where you're still going through tissues like a bulimic goes through gummy bears on a road trip, where you just know that the next time you blow your nose you're going to end up with a hernia (which is a very disconcerting sensation when pregnant, let me tell you) and you wake up every morning and the first though in your head is "oh crap, did I accidentally swallow the cat in my sleep last night?" Point is - I'm going to live.

In other super exciting news, Hunter and I went to the first in a series of 6 birthing classes last night. You would think that, to a certain extent, birthing would be intuitive. I don't know, I've never done it before. However, after staring at numerous 3-D, life sized models of the different stages involved in this oh-so-pleasant process and five or six re-enactments with props - some things might be better left with a smidge of mystique surrounding them. Don't get me wrong.... I'm all about prepping for what I'm sure will be the most amazing and beautiful and spectacular and magnificent and oh-my-god-traumatic experience of my life. I'm pumped we're taking this class, I've just recently decided that some things you just really can't truly prepare for - no matter how many times you see the creepy baby doll with the plastic head and the 360 degree arms and legs shoved through the birth canal and fake pelvis.

Our instructor is 'a character' to say the least. She has a very dry (slightly disturbing) sense of humor (she's have to though, wouldn't she?). More often than not, it seems like Hunter and I are the only ones who get her jokes, which is in itself entertaining. I think she really zeroed in on that - or the fact that Hunter had this look of catastrophic mortification plastered on his face through much of the class to the extent that I was becoming concerned that his face would get stuck like that. She kept glancing our way and occasionally asking things like, "are you okay", "you should have some candy", "do you need a break", and "are you still breathing?". At one point, about 15 minutes into this demonstration, the creepy doll made its 3rd rotation in an effort to squeeze through the fake pelvis. Hunt was looking particularly squeamish and frankly, somewhat panicked. He leaned over to me and in a slightly insane whisper said, "Oh My God, just get the f***er out!". To which I replied in a not-so-hushed-voice, "Hunter!!!! Don't call the baby a f***er!". To which he replied, "I wasn't calling OUR baby a f***er! I was calling the freaky doll a f***er!" At which point I shook my head and thought... "This really is going to be our greatest adventure".

So birthing class was at the very least, entertaining. We will have the same instructor for our breast feeding class, which I have almost conned Hunter into taking with me (because he is an awesome husband who is very secure in his masculinity).... (and because the instructor bribed him with chocolate and he'll do damn near anything for chocolate).

Until next time.... enjoy the rest of your week!

Love,

Julie

Mother-Cold-To-End-All-Colds, Weekend Ski Widow, The G. D. and A General Absence of Perk

You’ll notice my last post is backdated a little over a week. That’s because by the time I got off of the plane I was literally on the verge of collapse from both exhaustion and what was soon to morph into ‘the mother-cold-to-end-all-colds’. It started Monday, 9 days ago with a sore throat so horrendous that I finally broke down and started popping Tylenol. This cold, this ‘mother-cold-to-end-all-colds’ and has since taken on every single manifestation that a cold can possibly manifest. It’s hopped around from my throat, to sinuses, to my nose, to my chest, back to my throat, to my nose, last night, I woke up and my eyes were crusted shut, I mean really… I haven’t had a voice for three days, I’ve spent at least 4 days (if not 5) on the couch. Oh yes, and it’s also hopped to my husband, bless his heart… Speaking of... allow me to digress for just a moment…

So – it would be super easy for me to say, “well, if you hadn’t spent all day Saturday playing in the snow maybe you wouldn’t have gotten sick,” but the truth is, that would sound catty and I would be nagging and – well – I’ve already said it. (I was in a mood). Truth is, for the most part, I’m totally fine with becoming a weekend window to Hunter’s new found obsession – Skiing. I’m super thrilled that he’s embraced the local past time and is spending so much time outdoors getting fresh air, hanging out with new people and developing a new skill. Notice I said skill – not hobby. The thing about Hunter is that he’s incapable of having a causal hobby like say knitting is for me … where ½ way through I decide I’m pretty much over that red sweater I spent the last 6 months on, so whatever, maybe I’ll pick it up after I finish this book. No, Hunter doesn’t do causal. After his 5^th weekend out, he came home and announced that he had conquered the green and moved up to a few blue runs with some success. He followed this by saying “if I keep going like this I’ll know how to ski pretty soon”. It was then that I realized he had been infected. His drive had taken over and there was nothing I could do about it. Still I said, “you just told me that you skied some blue runs today – doesn’t that pretty much mean you know how to ski?” – wait for it – there we go – insert incredulous look here. “No,” he says, “I mean the goal is to ski blacks.” As if everyone knows this. Though it was pointless, I couldn’t stop myself “actually, I think for most people learning how to ski, the goal is to successfully get down the hill without significantly injuring yourself and if you can do so vertically its like a double score.” But it was too late. I could see the visions of two black diamonds dancing in his head. Yes, I’ll admit – I’m a smidge jealous, having to sit this winter out, but its also very exciting. Plus, at least its a seasonal obsession.

In other news… as a follow up to Ahhhh Sugar Sugar I did get a diagnosis of gestational diabetes. So far, well, I mean… I’m not going to sugar coat it (tee hee) it sucks. What pregnant woman wants to be on a strict diet of lean meats & veggies with occasional splurge of whole grains and fruits when pregnant???? I mean – my favorite past time is watching food network and baking. I’ve been indulging in fresh cherries with yogurt as “desert” at night and that just got nixed. I’m also set for weekly Dr. visits and weekly ultrasounds from now until d-day. At least we’ll fill up our ultrasound dvd and will be well acquainted with little moon pie when she arrives. Speaking of, upon finding out the diagnosis my dad suggested that we might want to consider a new nick-name. Poor child probably is not going to end up with her daddy's metabolisim. Truth is, ‘mother-cold-to-end-all-colds’ and diabetes aside, all signs point to a very healthy baby and a slightly inconvenienced mama so I really have no complaints. If there’s one thing this experience has taught me, it is that with the proper motivation, any amount of self restraint and accomplishment is possible, so 9 more weeks of salads and turkey bacon are really not a problem – as long as someone hooks up some Tulie’s upon my arrival home. Seriously. I mean it about the Tulie's.

"Ahhh... Sugar Sugar"

Happy Sunday! Well, the weekend didn’t exactly pan out the way I had envisioned on Friday morning. If you recall, I was counting on a quiet Saturday with a pot of half-caf – which should have been enough juice to get me through a rather entertaining blog (actually it would have been enough juice to get me through Tuesday, but who’s counting). That, of course, all changed when the phone rang mid-day on Friday and I was informed that I would need to be at the hospital at 8:00 on Saturday morning for a second round of glucose testing. Turns out my levels were a teensy bit high on the first test so… Saturday morning it is.

“Please do not eat or drink after midnight tonight. No food. No liquid. No, you cannot have coffee. No, not even decaf. No, not even if you drink it black. You also can’t use any lipstick, Chap Stick, or lip gloss. You can’t brush your teeth. You can’t have any water. Also… please refrain from exercise tomorrow morning.”

“WHAT ?!?!?! YOU EXPECT ME TO LUG MY PREGNANT BODY OUT OF BED AT THE CRACK OF DAWN ON A SATURDAY, COMPLETELY DEPRIVE MYSELF OF SUSTENANCE, AND REFRAIN FROM A 5 MILE JOG?!?!?! Now you’re just being unreasonable.”

So, while my loving and supportive spouse took this opportunity to get in a quick half day of skiing (more on this next time), I sucked it up, sacrificed my morning workout (tee hee) and stumbled into the hospital clinic without a stitch of lipstick. (I promise you, like any good southern lady, my mother would have straight-up failed this test and opted to live her life as a diabetic rather than abide by this no lipstick requirement).

For those of you not familiar with a glucose test (I wasn't, until I became an expert this week), it is a test (in this circumstance) to see if you might have gestational diabetes. That sounds pretty disconcerting, but from what I understand, it’s not a huge deal. It might mean a huge baby, but isn’t really the end of the world. For the actual test, you go in, they draw your blood, they make you chug this really super sweet, disgusting juice stuff (remember that nasty generic fruit punch that they used to serve at church for the kids? Imagine that only with quadruple the amount of sugar), they take your blood, you hang out an hour, they take your blood, you hang out another hour, they take your blood, you hang out another hour, they take your blood. One of the enigmas of being Julie is that despite the amounts of caffeine (and once upon a time in a land far far away – nicotine) that I have consumed in my life (we’re talking fuel for a medium-sized country) I have extremely low blood pressure. Now that I’ve been completely toxin free for almost a year now, I have discovered that there is only one vein in my entire body that has blood actively pumping through it… and even that one has a tendency to take naps when under too much stress. Being as how this was my second test this week, counting failed draws, we’re looking at about 10 blood draws in 4 days. As you can imagine, by 11:30 yesterday – this vein was officially on strike until there was, at a minimum, the promise of a doughnut in the very near future. All in all, we survived. The baby, bless her heart, got the sugar rush of a lifetime, as you might imagine, so that was pretty entertaining, I can’t even imagine the calisthenics that were taking place as I sat there cleaning out email for three hours, it was nothing short of impressive. I’m not going to lie – I know that this might be my last weekend of carbs and sugar for the next 3 months and I’ve taken full advantage of it and so has DHB in his always supportive and sympathetic way. ;) I get the results back tomorrow so I will definitely keep you posted.

Until tomorrow, have a lovely time wrapping up your weekend and I’ll be in touch!

So very much love,

Julie