I don't know if I mentioned pregnancy weight gain when I reflected on my last two pregnancies and their subsequent deliveries....and if I didn't, it was because, well, who wants to remember that? Unless of course, you are the kind of woman that only gains 10 pounds per pregnancy. And walk out of the hospital in pre-pregnancy jeans. (Which is unfair, mean, and wrong.)
((Unless, of course, that happens to me this time. In which case, I will be leaving the hospital in a bikini.))
Whew. Where was I going? Ah, the weight gain. With my first sweet bundle of joy, I gained my fair share of weight. That first trimester was a time of nausea. The ONLY thing I could stomach were fried mozzarella sticks from a Petro truck stop. I'm serious. So, not only did I not reap the weight loss benefits of early pregnancy food repulsion, I set a dangerous tone for the entire 9 1/2 months. Yikes!
Then, when the second pregnancy rolled around, I found Swedish pancakes were the cure for my morning (all day) sickness. Sweet little crepes drowning in a sea of butter and syrup. Oh be still my heart. And grow my thighs. So with that baby, good gravy! Hello, weight gain! And lots of it! (My only consolation, is that I have never weighed more than my beloved. He is such a trooper when it comes to sympathy weight gain. And I love him all the more for it.)
This time, however....this time was going to be different. I promised myself that I would be one of "those women." The kind that looks so good right after her baby is born you want to go up and spit in her eye. (Not that I would ever spit in some one's eye....I may WANT to, but I don't actually do that. Naturally.)
This time I rode out morning sickness with avocados and tomatoes. Remember? And up until two weeks ago, I had only gained 9 pounds. That's right! NINE! But then, something happened. Something called "The One Hour Glucose Test."
Having passed The One Hour Test in both previous pregnancies, I was not worried. Not even a little. So, the night before, I went on a date with my husband to a Mexican restaurant. It was fried and cheesy and wonderful. When we got home, I capped off the night with a slice of French Silk Pie. And then began to fast from 7 pm until morning.
I drank the yucky stuff, had my blood drawn, and went on my merry way. Later that day, I got a call from my Dr's nurse. "Your numbers were sort of high. We like them to be under 130-140 *pause* and yours were 163. You'll need to take THE THREE HOUR GLUCOSE TEST and we'd like you to follow a gestational diabetic diet up until that point, just in case."
It was at that moment my heart broke. My world fell apart. I became belligerent and manic. Almost.
Stink. So for a week, I followed the special diet of complex carbs, high fiber, and lean protein. It was physically painful.
Then came The Three Hour Test. (This time, I did not eat pie or Mexican food for my pre-fasting meal. I ate two eggs and dry low-carb toast.) And this time, I passed. And the world broke out in song. And I ate all the gestational diabetic forbidden lovelies that I could get my hands on.
The scary part is that I have not stopped eating all the forbidden lovelies. I don't even want to know what my scale has to say about it. I've got about 11 weeks to go, and avocados and tomatoes are no longer calling my name. Simple sugars and fatty meats seem to be singing my song. Those naughty things.
And! To make matters even worse, my husband has amped up his workout regimen, and is watching what he eats.
I better pack away that bikini.