MuddledMom

Since the weather is gloomy and most of us may be relegated to an indoor test of mental stamina and survival (I know I will, since Hunter has been sidelined with the croup since Saturday…) I figure why not post something new to read. Although not newly written, (How can I write anything with the dumptruck wars going on behind me) it’s something different. Here you go…

7/20/2006
2:10 pm
The Dreaded 3 Hour torture session…

So I went for that stupid 1 hour test last week. You know the one where they check for the gestational diabetes. Your drink that hideous glucose drink and then they draw some blood an hour later and send you on your way. Most likely it’s a waste of your time and they tell you at the next appointment that your fine. Well of course in my case it didn’t go that route. This was to be expected of course. I was unfortunate enough to suffer from the curse of the GD the last time. So it was no surprise to me when I got the phone call two days later from the Dr’s. office asking me to schedule an appointment for the dreaded three hour test.

Aside from truly serious complications, this is probably the worst fate a woman, who has given up every vice she had (and enjoyed…) for the sake of the life she was growing within, can suffer. You’ve given up drinking along with the casual cigarette that you had with the drink (no preaching please, thanks..), your social life has dwindled due to swelling, exhaustion and the fact that your arches are starting to collapse under the extra weight you have accumulated over the last several months. You can’t take any drugs when you are sick or have a splitting headache that was induced by a 35 minute tantrum, nothing, you are simply au natural. But you still have the food. The glorious food. The ice cream. The macaroni and cheese. The cheeseburgers, the lasagna. Yes you throw in a salad and some vegetables in there for balance but you eat like you never have eaten before. You consume everything with gusto because, well, there isn’t really much else for you to do.

Ex: The last time I was pregnant I had a wedding to attend. Everyone was out on a deck in the sun, with their frozen margarita’s and ice cold beers, smoking cigars. It was a great time for all, but I was not part of it. So where was I? I was inside sitting at the table eating a tray of cookies. The entire tray. If the tray was edible I would have ate it.

Anyway, so I had to go for the three hour torture session today. 9am appointment. You need to fast for like 12 hours before which means you can’t even have a cup of coffee in the morning before you go. You may as well give me a lobotomy. The fast I can deal with (well by the end of the three hours your ready to eat your flip flop) but the coffee thing, not so much. Let’s put it this way, my husband implemented the rule in my home that states; “Wife is not allowed to speak before ingestion of required amount of coffee returning her to natural cordial and somewhat likeable state”. So no coffee is bad. Very bad. Fine, whatever, I gotta do it. I get up, take a shower. Grumble about no coffee, grumble about boy getting breakfast, grumble at boy, grumble at husband. Snap at dogs. Throw a flip flop because it’s mate is missing. Get my keys. Grumble instructions for keeping Hunter alive and slam the door behind me. Oh it’s going to be a pleasant day.

I drive around looking for a spot. The meters are all open. I park, I get out and then I see why. Stupid meters. Broken. Says FAIL in weird digital letters. Get back in car. Move to other spot. Get out. Dammit. Stupid FAIL. Move to next spot. Get out. For the love of God I don’t care! It is melting sweaty hot I am gargantuan pregnant, and I am a block away I am leaving my car here and I don’t give a rat’s patootie (not actual word used) about any stinking broken meter. I have not had coffee yet, I am starving and it is not my fault that the stupid city can not have the decency to provide my neighborhood with parking meters that actually work. I kicked it at least twice, in my mind of course. Pregnant woman kicking parking meters induces too much staring which may cause them to cry or throw down, depending on the woman.

I get to the Dr’s. office. Pleasantries exchanged, I walk to the back and immediately get poked for blood. For the base reading. And then she hands me the giant bottle of green goo. I have to drink this whole bottle. I look at her and look at the bottle. “This is a lot bigger then the one from last week, I have to drink this whole thing? ” She responded without blinking, “why yes it is and yes you do”. Nice.

I go in the waiting room with the Styrofoam cup and bottle of neon green unleaded goo. I pour a cup. Take a gulp. Good Lord Jerimiah. This stuff is like concentrated lemon lime syrup. You could add a half teaspoon of this stuff to a giant glass of seltzer to make Sprite. Yeah Sprite, except you also added a half a cup of sugar to the Sprite because you want your fillings to melt. I bet if you left this stuff out side you would be surrounded by every picninc buzzing flying insect and three different colonies of ants in a matter or seconds. OK, so I think you got the picture. I am half way through the cup. I am about to throw up. Remember you have to do this on an empty stomach, because it’s not trying enough. Pregnancy related testing is all about torment. I can just picture a bunch of sadistic men (it’s gotta be the creation of men, women wouldn’t do this to each other) in white lab coats who are pissed off at their wives sitting around a table conspiring how they can make these tests borderline unbearable. “you really wanna make her sick, let’s add enough glucose to take out a bull, that’ll teach her to yell at me for leaving towels on the floor…HMMMMWWAHHAHAHAHAHHA!” Because labor isn’t enough. They consort and plot to make us pay. But I digress (don’t I always?) After much gagging, belching and eye rolling I finished it. I let the front know the time and the long dragged out three hour wait began.

Since I had gone through this before with my son, I knew what to expect. I had packed a few magazines (because how many parenting and so you are expecting magazines are you going to read in one sitting…?) and a book. The problem was since I was so fatigued do to lack of caffeine and nourishment I could not keep my eyes open. Falling asleep wasn’t an option because I had nowhere to lean my head. Besides every time I got somewhat comfortable my unborn child, who was at the moment doing a very fast fetal jig due to the injection of sugar fuel, was knocking the wind out of me every few minutes or so.

I was left to fidget in the chair thumbing through fashion magazines I had brought but was not really looking at. I don’t know what I was thinking with the choice of magazines. Who wants to look at a bunch of borderline anorexic sun-kissed bikini wearing midriff bearing babes when your shifting your fat uncomfortable onion white rear in an oversized chair trying to find a cheek that doesn’t aggravate a hemmroid? Who’s being sadistic now? So now I am thumbing through magazines for menopause, which at this point does not look so bad. Each hour they call me in to draw blood. To add insult to injury my veins apparently suck. When I say suck, I mean drawing blood from a stone is easier then drawing it from my veins. By the time the three hours is up, I am bruised all over the insides of my arms. I resemble a heroin addict except there is no way you can mistake me for one because I am too rotund. I cannot wait to get out of there.

Finally it’s over. I’m sure I will be hearing from them in a few days to tell me to come in because I have been diagnosed with GD. I’m expecting it so I’m not overly stressed. I leave, schlep to the car and lo and behold. Giant parking ticket. #$%*! Fine. The meter was broken when I parked, now it’s not. I’m going home. I am STARVING and need coffee so I do not care about the parking ticket. I am questioning my sanity when I made the decision to get pregnant again. I am totally fed up with everything, the physical limitations, the fatigue, the heat, the largeness, the hunger, the soon to be diagnosed inability to eat most foods. Why the hell am I doing this? Again?

Then I open the door. Standing there, wearing only a diaper and the most giant grin on his face, is the reason. With an even larger “HI!” he greets me. Runs around in a circle in glee for a few minutes because mommy’s home. I’m dying from the cuteness. God I love him.