I could vomit or fall asleep right now; really, either one is possible.
I finished my 2-hour fasting glucose tolerance test this morning, otherwise known as “shock your system with concentrated, un-carbonated orange pop and then let people poke you with needles.” It was a 2-hour fasting test because my doctor has had to send so many women back for the 3-hour test from false positives on the 1-hour test that he is now trying to hedge his bets. I suppose that one day of hell is better than doing this twice, but still. TWO HOURS. The baby staged a massive, sugar-fueled dance party for most of that time, though he’s now come off of it for the requisite sugar crash and nap. I wish I could do the same.
I have never had gestational diabetes, despite extreme weight gain, and I am fairly certain I don’t have it now (and I really hope I don’t have to eat those words when the test results come back).
I put the test off a bit because I needed Tony to be available to take the kids to preschool in the morning. You don’t screw around with fasting when you’re 28 weeks pregnant; you fast overnight and then do your test first thing in the morning, pulling away from grasping fingers and sleepy eyes and whining voices who want you to “make me breakfast, mommy” and “don’t go, mommy!” As if I could have made breakfast for anyone else while my stomach was eating itself at 7 am. So I did the test today and I have my routine doctor’s visit on Friday, and then life can go back to its normal routine of chaos and idiocy.
It’s a “normal” I wouldn’t trade for the world.