Normal ladies fantasize about getting pregnant, and just eating everything. Right? C’mon, I know I wasn’t the only one who had big plans to chow down.
Turns out though, I don’t get to do that.
I spent the first 15-16 weeks of my pregnancy eating as little as possible, because the very idea of food made me want to vomit. (Fun fact, the only thing that has repeatedly made me vomit is brushing my teeth, with is cruel and unusual, because then all you want to do is BRUSH YOUR FREAKING TEETH.) From February to May, I survived primarily on ice water with lemons, and dry rice chex. I’d periodically get a hankering for something really specific — like soft pretzels, or filet-o-fishes, or a stack of pancakes. I ate so little, I didn’t hesitate to eat whatever I wanted when the mood hit, because I knew Mr. Baby and I needed the calories. Let’s just say, there were a LOT of french fries involved.
I still lost like 15ish pounds.
Fast forward a few more weeks (third trimester is right around the corner, what?! how did that happen so quickly?! who wants to come paint a nursery?!) and I never really gained any of it back. I’m either holding steady week by week, or still losing the occasional pound or two. Mr. Baby on the other hand, is growing at a normal rate, and measuring on schedule. I somehow still ended up with bigger boobs and a sort of baby bump?
Pregnant ladies everywhere hate my guts. At this point I’m hoping to make it out with a healthy baby boy, and maybe a smaller pants size.
But it’s not all sunshine and roses. See, one of the main reasons I’m not really gaining any weight is I ended up with Gestational Diabetes.
I wasn’t super surprised. I’ve had PCOS forever, and with that usually comes along with insulin resistance. I’ve always been able to control it with diet and exercise though, so that pesky diabetes (or as it’s known in my social circle — the Wilford Brimlies and/or the Bret Michaels) has remained at bay.
But apparently the placenta is a real bitch, and makes whatever insulin a lady makes day-to-day totally worthless. So I got to meet with a dietician, and come up with a fancy meal-plan to help manage my blood sugar. But after two weeks, it wasn’t enough, and now I get to give myself three injections of insulin, every day.
For those of you keeping score at home — that’s four injections total (blood thinner and insulin) and four finger pricks (to check sugar after meals) every day. Eight needles. Eight.
To say I’m officially cured of my fear of needles is a tremendous understatement.
And so my dreams of eating for two have been dashed. Unless, of course, I want to eat broccoli or kale for two — which unfortunately I do not.
Am I complaining? No, I’m really not. I would do anything for a healthy happy baby, obviously. I stick to that diet like nobody’s business, and I do it with a smile on my face. Oh, you want me to take a bazillion more shots a day? Ain’t no thing, doc, sign me up.
But just because I’m not complaining, doesn’t mean I’m not compiling a list of things to eat and drink as soon as Mr. Baby gets here.
In no particular order — I want one, or three, of the following (preferably while still in the hospital):
An ice cold Coke Zero (I know diet soda makes you fatter, but I don’t care right now)
A pitcher of margaritas with salt, because — obviously.
Like, a whole plate of Rice-A-Roni
A whole cheese pizza, ala Kevin McCallister
Macaroni and Cheese!
A whole cream-cheese filled coffee cake, and the world’s largest coffee
Instead of flowers, please bring french fries and chicken nuggets.