She Says… And Speaking Of Loveys

And speaking of Loveys, Owen did his first “big brother duty” by helping me choose a lovey for the new babe.

I learned a few lessons with Owen and his gross Lovey-sucking habits:

• Don’t get the kind that have big “feet” (fabric after the knot), which essentially makes a cloth pacifier
• Don’t get any with a looped tag that you will eventually want to cut and break your child’s heart
• Don’t get any that are white or partially white — they will not be white for very long
• Get 4 – we currently have 3, and sometimes have emergencies where the “laundry” one hasn’t been washed and the others are looking grody

With that in mind, I opted for the ubiquitous Angel Dear loveys. Everyone seems to have them and there must be a reason why. They come in a billion and one different designs, so if you choose a less-popular one, your kid hopefully won’t have to “share” at daycare (wouldn’t that be disconcerting, to see another kid cuddling YOUR Lovey?).

I have a few favorites (the spotted dog, zebra and raccoon, even though two of those three break my “no white” rule) but decided that this was a perfect job for the new big brother to feel like he was helping and picking something very special for his little bro. I gave Owen the choice between 3 different animals and he chose the gray raccoon. Without a doubt.

So the unborn is now the proud owner of 4 little gray raccoons, currently keeping his crib warm until he arrives.

On Mother’s Day Benjamin and I were putting together a new glider for the nursery and Owen was “helping”. I opened the Amazon box with the Loveys in it and Owen was immediately smitten. He quickly made them all kiss each other and then lifted up my shirt so they could kiss my belly/the baby. He talked in this sweet sing-songy voice and said, “These are your loveys, baby! I will give them to you when you cry!”. My eyes were welling up with tears as he gently, gently laid them down on the new ottoman, covered them with a blanket and shhhed us while he pretended to put them to sleep. He said he would do the same to the baby when he arrives.

I die.

That was worth every penny. I look forward to many more sweet moments with the new baby and his Lovey!

She Says… Damaged Goods

We made a potentially very bad parenting decision last night. And it nearly broke our hearts.

As I’ve mentioned before, Owen LOVES his lovey. Lovey stays in bed (my hard and fast rule to avoid dragging him around everywhere we go) and is only available at nap and bedtimes, but oh how he is loved. We have three identical Loveys that are rotated between laundry, home and school so that in the almost 3 years of his life, Owen has never had to sleep without one since they were introduced.

As I also may have mentioned, Owen has taken to sucking on Lovey’s foot (arm?) while putting himself to sleep. It’s kind of gross, as that particular foot (on all three Loveys) is brownish, despite a billion washings, and starts to stink a little after a few sleeps. Then it’s time for a bath. But hey, probably no worse than a pacifier or a thumb, and at least this one goes in the closet as soon as he wakes up. The sucking has been happening for a long time, but a more recent habit is hanging Lovey on his bottom teeth, dangling out of Owen’s mouth from his looped tag. I think this started when Owen’s little fingers got too big to fit inside the looped tag.

I HATE this habit. Even more than the sucking.

He tugs on Lovey while attached to his tooth just hard enough that I worry about his teeth growing in the wrong direction. Or one pulling all the way out. It’s probably unfounded, but for some reason this tag hanging thing just irks me. And frankly I just don’t like the way Lovey looks dangling out of Owen’s mouth.  I’ve asked him not to do it, but of course there’s no way to regulate since he does it in the privacy of his own room when he’s sleeping. So Benjamin and I had the brilliant horribly awful idea to snip the tag open so that he couldn’t hang it on his tooth anymore.

Last night we made the snip on the 1st Lovey. It took Owen about 1 second to find the atrocious offense before the tears began. I don’t WANT this Lovey. He’s broken! What happened to his tag? I can’t scratch it! I want to be able to scratch it. It doesn’t feel right. I want a different one. Granted, last night was a particularly tearful and easily-frustrated night for Owen, so maybe not the best timing. But is there really a right time to mutilate one’s best friend?

Benjamin and I tried to keep blank faces but we were both crying on the inside. What had we done? I very nearly jumped in to say that I would buy him new ones… but I restrained myself because I wanted to see how this played out.

We all read a book together and by the end Owen was sucking happily on his favorite Lovey foot, flicking the tag mindlessly just like he used to. Before I tucked him in I asked, “Are you ok?” “Yeah.” “Is Lovey ok?” “Yeah. I can just touch the tag like this. It’s good.”.

Phew. I think we’re all going to survive.

The moral of the story? I SO wish we had prepared him for the snip. Every time I try to “trick” Owen I end up feeling like it was the wrong decision. Maybe snipping it at all was the wrong decision, but it’s too late now. We’ve decided we’re going to snip the other 2 as they are introduced over the next few days (one is currently at school in his nap bag and I don’t want to “trick” him again and have him freak out at school), because I don’t think we can have one damaged and 2 intact. And I still don’t want him looping that tag around his tooth. And given that he got over the damaged goods pretty quickly, I think we’ll all move right past it.

Lovey seems to be my Achilles heel with Owen. I just can’t stand coming between them.

I’ll let him go to college with the darn thing if he wants. As long as he’s not pulling out his teeth with it.

She Says… Enjoying the Now

I feel like I write so often about the hard parts about having a toddler. The annoying things. The behavioral challenges. The “problems”. So, this Mother’s Day, I just stopped thinking about the little things I want to change/correct/alter/fix, and the milestones I’m looking forward to in the future, and just enjoyed where we are right now.

We’re in a sweet, sweet spot right now. Owen is a doll.

Sure, we have our outbursts of “NO!” and tantrums and tears. But overall? Overall he is hilarious. And cooperative. And follows the rules. And eats and sleeps like a champ. He has opinions, but is beginning to understand compromise. He’s charming. And smart. The connections his little brain is making about the world surprise me every day. His voice melts me.

It was a sweet, sweet Mother’s Day. And the littlest one in my belly made it all the sweeter.

I know things are about to change a lot for our family. But I couldn’t be happier about the timing of the wee one joining our family and the little person Owen is turning out to be.

I am so thankful to be their mother.

She Says… I Have One More Question for You

Owen’s favorite phrase du jour is “I have one more question for you”. It definitely sounds like something I’d say, so I’m not surprised he picked it up, but I am surprised that he seems to use it appropriately (when he really does have only one more question). It sounds so adult coming out of his tiny little mouth.

We had our first “getting out of bed” experience the other night, 3 weeks after introducing the big boy bed (which also means that we won a bet with our friends, who said they’d take us all out for ice cream if Owen lasted 3 weeks without leaving his room — score!). I was wondering when that was going to happen! This was pretty much the best case scenario and I’m thrilled that Owen seems to have adjusted with very little changing in terms of our sleeping routine. So far, at least.

This was the conversation we had when he woke up yesterday morning.

Owen: Mommy, am I allowed to get out of bed?
Me: No, you should stay in bed until I come get you in the morning.
Owen: Is Lovey allowed to jump out of bed?
Me: Well, it’s better if he stays in bed, but… Why? did he fall out of bed last night?
Owen: Yes.
Me: That’s ok! What did you do?
Owen: Silence. I think he thought he was supposed to say he DIDN’T get out of bed, but doesn’t yet know how to lie.
Me: That’s ok if you got out just to get Lovey. Because I didn’t hear you cry for me. Did you cry for me?
Owen: No. I got out of bed (sheepish grin).
[Side note: Oh how I adore the "telling on myself constantly" phase!]
Me: That’s ok. As long as it was just to get Lovey. Did you get right back in bed?
Owen: I DID!
Me: That’s awesome, buddy. I’m so proud of you for getting Lovey yourself.
Owen: Mommy, I have one more question for you.
Me: Yes?
Owen: Am I allowed to fix my blankets myself?
Me: Yes. Definitely. Did you fix your blankets yourself when you got back in bed?
Owen: I DID!

So proud. As I’ve said before, we’ll see how long it lasts, but so far so good on the big boy bed front!

She Says… A Little Scare and Getting Ready for You

My little acrobat/soccer player/drummer,

We had a little bit of excitement last Friday. Last week was a long, LONG week. Daddy was traveling and I was working days and nights and Owen was, well, being two years old. I was so ready to just put my feet up after I tucked Owen into his new(ish) big boy bed. But I couldn’t quite shake this feeling I was having. Like something wasn’t right.

I won’t go into too much detail about what I was experiencing, because when you get older you’ll read this letter and be all, “Eww, Mom. That’s so GROSS.”, but let’s just say I was worried that my amniotic fluid may have been, uhh, coming out before the right time. I called the doctor and she told me that the only way to diagnose such a thing was to have a test done, and although chances were low that that’s what was going on, I had to go immediately to the hospital to be sure. So, no time for putting my feet up. I had to call a babysitter (who thankfully lives across the street) and head to the hospital solo. Bottom line: It wasn’t that. After a couple hours of monitoring and a quick test, we were on our way back home. Phew.

Side note: After the nurse hooked you up to the monitor, she would come back every once in a while and marvel at just how active you were. I still can’t believe it’s possible, but you’re even stronger and more active than your brother was. You were kicking and flipping and totally showing off for her, forcing the monitor to make sounds like a whale underwater that were even louder than your heartbeat. She also showed me the spikes on the screen that showed your brain activity. Apparently you were showing signs of neural development a few weeks ahead of your age. Little smarty pants. Your movements are so forceful that I’ve been watching them from the outside for several weeks, and recently you’ve even jolted my whole body with your movements (especially in the middle of the night!). With Owen I remember a clear pattern of awake/sleeping times. With you, it seems you’re almost always awake and moving. I may very well have my hands full if you keep that up once you come out.

Our little excursion to the hospital may have been short and a false alarm, but do you know what it did for me? It completely changed the way I think about you.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been thinking about you for 30+ weeks already. But something changed when I realized that if I was having the issue I thought I was having, I would have had to come to terms with the idea of meeting you much sooner than I expected. As in, you are A PERSON. And you are coming, whether we’re ready or not.

On the way home from the hospital my brain went into overdrive. You’re coming. In 10 weeks (or only 8 weeks if you’re on your brother’s time schedule… or sooner if you really want to catch me off guard…). While on some level I’ve been procrastinating because I know that babies really need very little when they come home from the hospital (really just diapers… and they even send you home from the hospital with some of those), now it’s time to kick it into high gear.

I’m sorry to say it, but your nursery has looked more like a storage closet than a bedroom for the last 20 weeks. A place where I dumped clothes and toys that Owen didn’t need anymore, but I knew we’d need again someday soon. Even the crib and changing table were just pushed in and left there when we switched Owen into his big boy bed.

But now, it’s time. Yesterday I washed 4 loads of teeny tiny baby laundry that have been packed in boxes in our attic since we moved. I nearly got high off of the smell of the baby detergent, completely overwhelmed by the memories of Owen’s early days. I cleaned baby seats and swings and carriers. I folded swaddles and receiving blankets. I opened boxes labeled “Baby Bottles” and unzipped my breast pump bag (which I promptly zipped back up again and tucked in the back of the closet — PTSD from the nursing issues I had with Owen) and flipped through books filled with advice about how to survive the first days, weeks, months. And I did it all thinking of you, as a little person, who we’re going to meet really, really soon.

I couldn’t be more excited. But can you make me a deal? Stay in there for at LEAST 8 more weeks so I can get even more ready for you. I know you don’t need me to sew curtains or stick little decals on the wall of your room, but it certainly would help me feel more calm and prepared for when you arrive. You do, however, need a carseat, and that’s still buried in the basement somewhere.

We’re getting there.

I’m so excited to meet you. And I can’t wait to learn all of the ways you will continue to surprise me, like you did last Friday. In the meantime, think about taking a nap or two, mmmkay little guy? I’m exhausted just by feeling you bounce around in there all day long.

I love you. More than you may ever really know.
Mommy

She Says… Skydiving By 5

Owen has always been a wild child when it comes to climbing and rough-and-tumbling and fearlessness. The past week or so, this has culminated in a new obsession with jumping off of tall things.

Like, things that are nearly as tall as I am.

It started with jumping off of the couch. Then he graduated to jumping off of a stair or two. And recently, with the addition of his big boy bed, jumping off of his bed to see how far he can get (dangerously close to a little bookshelf on the opposite side of the room, we have found). These days, no matter who is nearby or where we are, I hear his little voice shouting, “Hey! Watch this, guys!” and turn around to see him teetering on the edge of some precipice about to jump off.

Yesterday at the playground it was the top of this little climber. One second he was on the ground next to me, and the next second he was literally on top of it, ready to stand without any hands there to steady him. At least he called my name because he wanted an audience!

Benjamin nearly killed me when I allowed him to jump.

But here’s what I’ve realized. He’s going to do it anyway. As with most things that us parents attempt to control, I guess. But especially on the playground. If I want him to “go play”, I can’t stand hovering and telling him what he can and can’t do. And, frankly, I’m a huge proponent of letting him get a few skinned knees (hopefully not very many broken bones) to let him learn his own lessons about what he’s capable of. I am constantly surprised by what he really CAN do if I let him try. So my answer when he looks at me with that expectant, “you’re so not going to let me do this” look is almost always, “Ok, show me!”.

Granted, the first time he tries a new stunt I’m usually there with a hand out or spotting him so he doesn’t go kersplat on the ground right in front of my face. But especially recognizing that come July I may not always be there to catch him when he falls, he’d better learn what he can do safely on his own and what is actually too high.

I’ll probably eat these words when I’m rushing him to the ER someday in the not-too-distant-future.

But for now, we’ve been working on some sweet new tricks on our swingset at home (monkey bar trapeze! Transferring from ramp to slide mid-climb! Sliding down the slide head first!). Benjamin does not approve. Which is ironic, really, because I can guarantee you (and I’m sure his parents can attest) that Owen got this “watch this!” gene from his father. He definitely didn’t get it from me.

If he continues at this rate, the kid will be skydiving by the time he’s 5.

Or maybe not. Is there an age where all of a sudden better judgement kicks in and the fearless kid gets not-so-fearless? Did/do you have a wild child when it comes to stunts/climbing/jumping? Do you try to stop them from doing the really dangerous stuff? How?

She Says… Needlephobia

Since my gestational diabetes diagnosis I’ve gone through the various stages of grief:

• Denial. No, I don’t have diabetes. So many of my blood glucose levels were LOW (even crazy low) during testing. Maybe the doctor just didn’t look at my whole medical history. This diagnosis just isn’t right.
• Anger. I have an incredibly healthy diet and I exercise more than most people I know (even the ones who aren’t pregnant). How can this be possible? Why me? Why now?
• Bargaining. Here’s what I’ll do — I’ll rock the first week of blood testing and then maybe the endocrinologist will take back the diagnosis when he sees how low my numbers are. If I just follow the doctor’s recommendations, I bet they’ll realize I don’t have diabetes after all.
• Depression. I’m sad about the diagnosis. I’m sad that I can’t just open up the refrigerator and have a snack without calculating carbohydrates and checking my food log to see what I’ve already eaten today. I’m a huge baby about needles and am SO sad I have to prick my fingers 4 times a day to check my blood glucose. I’m sad I actually HAVE to workout on a schedule instead of choosing to do so.
• Acceptance. You know what? It’s going to be ok. So many people deal with so much worse. Heck, I’ve dealt with so much worse (hello, infertility, miscarriage and celiac disease!). This is just an opportunity to make sure I stay as healthy as possible for the remainder of my pregnancy, and hey, maybe it will keep my overall weight gain low. Win, win.

I know, I know. I sound totally melodramatic… but I also think my reaction is very normal. Gestational diabetes can be scary, and can make you feel guilty (unnecessarily) and sad about not being able to just… eat like a normal person (particularly at a time when you want to be eating all the food, all the time). It sucks. But, it’s also totally manageable by diet, or a combination of diet and medication, and will be, hopefully, temporary. I keep reminding myself that plenty of people deal with a diabetes diagnosis for their entire lives, so surely I can get over myself for the next three months. Yes? Yes.

I met with a nutritionist yesterday to go over the dietary recommendations for gestational diabetes. To be completely honest, I was sort of annoyed by having to go to the nutritionist in general because I pride myself on being incredibly knowledgeable and proactive about my diet. Especially since Benjamin’s celiac diagnosis, I am hyper-aware of the foods I put in my body and make a Herculean effort to make the healthiest choices for me and my family. In short, I didn’t think I needed no stinkin’ nutritionist. (Bad attitude, I know).

I have been keeping a food log since last Friday and we spent a long time talking about how I generally eat. I was very proud when she said that I was probably the healthiest eater she will council all year. That said, I still had/have a lot to learn about the gestational diabetes diet! It’s not a weight-loss diet, or about eating more veggies or less meat or no bread, or even about reducing processed foods and eating more whole foods (which is the basis of my personal philosophy). It’s just about making sure I’m tracking carbohydrates so I don’t exceed certain levels, and defining the threshold of carbs that spikes my individual blood sugar in an unhealthy way. Thankfully it seems I really don’t have to adjust my diet much at all to adhere to the recommendations. Phew.

But I do have to prick my finger to get a blood sample 4 times a day.

Despite the fact that I have withstood countless blood draws and injections and uncomfortable procedures in the name of getting pregnant, and even pushed a 7+ pound child out of a tiny hole in my body, the thought of sticking myself with a needle makes me weak in the knees.

I am SUCH a baby about needles. (Remember when I had to get over that to try acupuncture?). As a kid (and, ok, a teenager… and a young adult…), I would, without fail, keel over when getting blood drawn at the doctor’s office. I learned to tell them I was a fainter up front so they could lay me back in the reclining chair before they ever got the needle out. Thankfully I’ve outgrown this, but I do still avert my eyes when they pull out the needle. Ew.

So on Tuesday I met with a nurse to learn how to use my glucose meter (aka finger pricker) and have been pricking my fingers 4 times a day since then. Though I’m getting a little bit more comfortable, it still gives me the heebie jeebies. Every time. Yes, the needle is tiny. And yes, it’s just a drop of blood. But OH it makes me cringe. The plan is to check levels for 2 weeks and track them with a detailed food log, and then meet with an endocrinologist to analyze the results at that point.

It’s a LOT of work (remembering to take my level first thing in the morning while I’m getting Owen up and ready for school, and then remembering to set the 1 hour timer on my phone after every meal, and then remembering to log everything I eat and when I ate it and how I felt?!). But it’s all for a good cause. Healthy baby, healthy mama.

And I haven’t passed out yet.

She Says… Sexism Starts Young

The scene: Owen and I were at his favorite playground on Monday. He was playing more on his own than ever before — racing back and forth on the climber, down the slides, up the climbing wall. I was standing off to the side, watching, smiling at the way his little body climbs so effortlessly and appreciating the joy he exudes just running around. (In short, it was one of those perfect playground days that my hilarious blog-friend Meg wrote about NOT having on the very same day).

He ran down the hill to another play area where two girls (maybe 5 years old?) were running around together. He started running right alongside them, without saying a word, just beaming at them and including himself in their game. It was sweet. I chatted with their parents and we laughed at how social he was. He kept asking me to come play and I encouraged him to play with the other kids while I stayed on the sidelines.

Owen: Mommy! Come run with me!
Me: You go ahead and run with those girls. They are having so much fun.

Little girl (to her friend): Hey! Let’s play hide and seek!
Owen (his face lighting up at the mention of his favorite game): Yeah! Let’s play hide and seek!
The little girls ignore him.
Little girl (to her friend): Ok, I’ll count and you hide over there behind that tree. (Side note: Don’t you love how little kids play hide and seek? Telling you where to hide?)

The girls run away and Owen runs behind them, trying to hide with the one who was hiding. They stop the game and stare at him.

Owen (to me): I want to play!
Me: You can, buddy! Just say, “Can I play with you?”.
Owen (to the girls): Can I play with you? (In the sweetest little singsong voice).
Little girl: No. It’s a girl’s game ONLY.
Owen (still smiling, completely unaware of the message): It’s a what game?
Little girl: GIRL’S GAME. Like, you can’t play. Because you’re a boy.

I watched a confused look come over Owen’s face while the girls ran away, giggling. My heart broke for him. Thankfully he didn’t seem to care all that much, and I quickly took his hand and offered to run with him or push him on the swings. We chatted quickly about how it’s not nice to exclude others in your game, and the girls should have let him play.

Kids are kids. Kids are mean sometimes (intentionally or not). It’s the first of many, many instances of feeling left out, I’m sure. But I just thought we had a few more years of innocent, happy playground time.

Apparently not.

He asked me several more times that night why the girls didn’t let him play. I know he was trying to process what happened and I didn’t have a great answer for him except that sometimes friends just want to play with certain people. Thankfully he bounced back quickly and soon attached himself to an 8 year old boy who was doing all sorts of dangerous jumps off of the climber (so, clearly Owen-the-daredevil’s new personal hero). He jumped right in with “What’s your name” and clapped and laughed at every stunt. On our way out of the playground the 8 year old high-fived Owen and said, “You’re pretty cool. I never would have guessed you’re only 2.”.

So, all in all, those girls didn’t ruin Owen’s day. But they kind of ruined mine.

She Says… Babies

Thank you all for the happy thoughts you sent my way after last week’s whiny post. A weekend of sunshine did me good and I’m feeling like myself again.

On top of that, Owen’s little fever turned out to be nothing and he seems to have emerged from whatever it was that was causing him to act like a little monster last week. I don’t know if it was a bug he was fighting or lack of sleep due to being excited about his bed or what, but I’m just thankful it is over now. And, in its wake, it seems to have left an exceptionally sweet child whose capacity for playing by himself has doubled and whose behavior could not be better. Phew. I guess those kinds of developmental jumps are worth the painful week? I guess? I’m still not sure why they seem to be so pronounced with Owen, and only in retrospect do I see what caused all of that ridiculous fussing and terrible behavior.

Owen is super excited to be a big brother. He’ll often bring up things like, “I’m going to teach my baby brother to eat” or “I want to touch my baby brother’s toes” or “I’m going to bring him toys to hold” out of the blue. Recently this excitement has manifested itself as an obsession with babies.

He LOVES babies.

At school a few weeks ago, when the kids were still in their snowsuits, there was a little girl standing, stuck, crying on the playground. Owen’s teachers tell me they turned around and he was over next to her, patting her on the back and saying, “It’s ok. It’s ok.”. Sob.

And he’s always had a thing for hugging our friends’ babies (whether they liked it or not!).

When I arrived at school to pick Owen up on Friday, the mom of one of his friends was there with her newborn. The baby was crying in his stroller and as soon as he heard that little cry, Owen dropped his toy and came running from across the playground. He climbed up onto the stroller and started patting his foot, crooning, “S’ok. Why are you crying?” in this little sing-songy voice. He patted the baby’s head SO GENTLY (like, for real gently… which both amazed me and terrified me, because one can never tell when that gentle touch is going to turn not-so-gentle…) and dug the baby’s pacifier out of his blankets. Owen stuffed the paci in his mouth (backwards, but it didn’t seem to matter) while asking, “You want this?” over and over again.

I nearly cried. It was just about the sweetest thing. Thankfully the mother didn’t mind Owen’s little hands all over her baby (I wouldn’t have blamed her if she did!) and she praised him for being so gentle. I could barely tear Owen away to go home. He was in love.

Then, over the weekend we hung out with our friends who have a little guy who is about 15 months old. He toddled towards the parking lot (nowhere near the cars, but in that general direction) and Owen ran up to him and shouted, “Don’t walk! Cars won’t see you!” in an effort to keep him safe. Owen walked next to his little friend and put his arm around his shoulders. Buddies. Oh so sweet, until that arm-around-the-shoulders move made them both fall down, and Owen tried to pick him up by his head/neck. Clearly it came from a place of love and trying to help the kid up, but we have some lessons to learn about how to handle other kids. Gulp.

I’m beginning to see what kind of big brother Owen may be. Head over heels in love. Overly affectionate. Super gentle until he’s super NOT gentle. Protective.

We’ll have to watch him like a hawk.

Still, it makes my heart swell to watch him love on babies. I’ll have to remember this the next time I have to sign an incident report for him beating up a friend at school.

She Says… The “D” Word

It’s been a week, friends. And I don’t mean that in a good way. And, coming off of last week, I was really in need of an easy, catch-up week.

I haven’t written much this week, because, well, my Mama taught me that if you don’t have something nice to say, don’t say anything at all. I’ve been so focused on just doing what I need to do to make it to the next day that I’ve barely had time to look up. I recently got a promotion at work, so in addition to my already very busy days, I am also now leading a team of new people. I’m navigating new responsibilities without being able to give up the old ones, and it’s been exhausting. A great opportunity, to be sure, but exhausting. On top of that, the marathon bombing craziness threw off my schedule and eliminated a few days of work due to building closings and lockdowns and a general lack of focus on anything but breaking news. I counted on this week to catch up and get myself back in order. But instead, Owen got sent home from school with a fever on Wednesday along with a note that said that several kids in his class have Hand, Foot & Mouth Syndrome, so to be on the lookout for that. LOVELY. Of course, as usual, this came on a day when I HAD to be at the office running a training program and delivering a 3 hour training presentation to a packed room. Stressful, to say the least. Not to mention that this all came on the heels of a period of Benjamin traveling more than he has been home, so I’ve been feeling… overwhelmed.

That would normally be enough to stress a person out out. Even a person whose stress threshold is usually quite high. But no, the last piece of complicating news came yesterday, right in the middle of my 3 hour presentation.

I have gestational diabetes.

Remember when I failed the gestational diabetes screening test a few weeks ago, and then had a weird hypoglycemic response to the 3 hour? Well, since I am at high risk for gestational diabetes due to having polycystic ovarian syndrome (PCOS), my doctor/midwife team wanted me to be tested twice. Once early (which I did around 23 weeks), and once at the “normal” time of 28 weeks, which is where I am now. They didn’t want to put me through the stress of doing the 3 hour test again since my body kind of freaked out the last time, so we opted to do a two hour test instead.

I took it Wednesday morning (trapped in the lab waiting room with spotty internet for 2 hours, feeling pukey, while I wanted/needed to be catching up on work…) and the results came back yesterday. High.

Given my weird history with this test and erratic blood sugar levels in general, they are classifying me as having glucose instability and treating me for GDM. That means finger pricks to check blood glucose levels before and after eating, following a strict diet and exercise routine, regularly seeing an endocrinologist and nutritionist until this baby makes his arrival, and increased monitoring of him prior to that point.

So… I’m here. But I don’t have anything nice to say, so I’m not saying much at all.

The silver lining? Owen’s fever stayed really low and hasn’t seemed to turn into Hand, Foot & Mouth or anything worse than a slightly elevated temp. He’s back at school this morning and my fingers are crossed that he stays there, healthy and happy, until the end of the day.