I’m a big girl now

I’m getting a little worried. I’m only six months (technically, 27 and a half weeks) pregnant, and by all accounts, I’m friggin’ huge. No, really? Huge. Huge, like people ask me when I’m due and when I say “February” they go through this disbelief-shock-pity series of expressions and ask me if I’m sure there’s only one in there. Like, my own postal code huge. Like, I’ll soon have a gravitational pull equivalent to Pluto huge.

No doubt, my inherent lack of willpower has been a contributing factor, as has been my willingness to play fast and loose with the definition of “good nutrition.” And the fact that while I didn’t suffer overt morning sickness, I did feel like crap on toast for the first four months of this pregnancy, during which time I heavily self-medicated with my twin addictions to Coke Classic and potato chips. On the good side, I’ve compensated by continuing my weekly visits to the gym; on the bad side, a rather painful recurrence of my latent patello-femoral syndrome (translation: ouchy knee) has made me more sedentary than I would otherwise been.

All that to say, I’m huge. Don’t believe me? Ask my regular evening commute bus driver. I really quite like him and the personable way he greets every passenger with a smile. Last week, he used that “lower the bus” thingee for what I thought was a person getting on behind me. The next day, when I was the only person at the stop, I realized he was lowering the bus FOR ME. Either he thought I was too big to haul my ass up the step, or he feared my extra weight might blow the tires if he didn’t release some pneumatic pressure to account for my extra bulk coming on board. No joke. Huge.

This morning, as you read this, I’ll be going for my gestational diabetes glucose test. No one-hour screening test for me, though. Due to two overt “risk factors” (the fact that I am prone to large babies in the first place, and our old friend “advanced maternal age”) I get to skip the screening test and go straight to the no-messing-around test. First I have to fast for eight hours – and right now you should be snickering, because the only thing more cranky than a pregnant woman is a pregnant woman on a fast, especially if that pregnant woman on a fast is ME – and then I have to go in for a blood draw, drink some sugary concoction with a strong resemblance to orange pop, and then hang around for two hours metabolizing it before they can take another blood sample. Fun times!!

So it will be well after 10 am before I can have any food – or, gasp! coffee – after having fasted since bedtime the night before. And what do you want to bet the boys will continue to not adapt to the lack of daylight savings, leaving me awake and with neither food nor caffeine in my system for up to five hours or more? Oh, the myriad joys of pregnancy. (And you know I wouldn’t trade it for the world!)

Ahem. Only three days left to vote – hint, hint.

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