(Edit: I had originally written “naval gazing” instead of “navel gazing.” Thus illustrating the point of this post, which is that my mind is quickly becoming mush. Thanks, Bobby, for the edit. 🙂 )

It’s week 35 of this fetus party.  All I have left to give are bullet points.

  • My stomach moves.  Often.  To be more precise, it’s my baby who is moving, and making my stomach look possessed in the process.  It’s jarring to look down and watch the swirling storm of baby boy moving around happily in there.
  • It was also slightly jarring to be onstage for a panel last week in NYC and to have the baby going berserk while I was trying to talk.  I hope attendees thought I was trying to emphatically state my case instead of trying to dislodge the baby from my ribcage.
  • (I may have been doing both.)
  • At this point with my daughter, I was already in the hospital on pre-eclampcia instigated bed rest, so it’s weird to be home.
  • Don’t get me wrong:  I AM HAPPY TO BE HOME.  Bed rest sucked and I have no desire to repeat that experience.  But the last time I was 35 weeks pregnant, I was trapped in hospital; this time, I’m home and trying to be a productive member of our household.  I have no concept of what I should/shouldn’t feel up to doing.
  • Problem is, I have a bit of a nesting problem.
  • If you click on that link, notice the picture of the lady who is showered and wearing make up and has combed her hair and is happily – serenely! – dusting the front of her cabinet. That’s not the kind of nesting I am feeling.  No serenity here.  I want to rip all the weeds out of the front garden with my bare hands, name them all, and then jam them into the compost bin.  I want to paint the upstairs hallway.  I want to crochet a tea cozy big enough to put over my car to protect it from bird shit.  The urge to reorganize the books in my office by color and then by author’s favorite ice cream flavor is taking over my brain.
  • And yet I can’t sit still long enough to answer more than five emails at a time.  There’s a disconnect between “productive use of my time” and “full-out hormonal spazzery.”
  • Being home instead of the hospital is great, but is bringing about a new set of worries that I didn’t experience with my first pregnancy.
  • Like “what happens when your water breaks?”  My water never broke the first time. My daughter arrived via scheduled c-section after a few weeks of close monitoring, so I never even had a contraction.  The first contraction I ever experienced was when I miscarried last summer, making me feel even more uneasy about contractions.  Mentally, I’m unprepared for labor.
  • Physically, I’m as prepared as I can be.  I am delivering at a hospital that is about two hours from my home, so the journey there can’t be delayed.  I have a suitcase packed.  So does my daughter (so she can spend a night or two with my mother while we help her brother escape).  But the idea of that drive on top of potential labor stuff makes me twitchy.
  • (Of course we have a more local, true emergency, plan, but I want to deliver where my established care team is, so that’s our goal.)
  • I am also in bi-weekly appointment mode with my high risk maternal fetal medicine team, which means I am in Boston twice a week to check on the baby and for any potential issues.  I have been told to bring a suitcase to those appointments, too, as they may decide it’s go-time based on a single appointment, and I won’t have another four hours to go back and forth again.
  • Which means I’ve been living out of a suitcase for the past week, and will continue to pack-and-repack the same suitcase until the baby is born.
  • Thankfully, I only have about three outfits that fit somewhat properly, so it’s an easy cycle of packing and unpacking.
  • And I still have diabetes.  Yep, still there.  Still chronic.  Still want to shove it into a tin can and send it down a garbage chute.
  • My total daily dose of insulin is up significantly from pre-pregnancy numbers, but not quite in the triple-zone that I hit before giving birth to my daughter.  With Birdy, I was taking just about 100 units of insulin per day to achieve solid numbers.  This round, I’m taking about 65 units per day so far, though numbers still might climb as these last few weeks progress.
  • My insulin:carb ratios are getting crazy, though.  I was at 1:12 before pregnancy, and am already down to 1:6 so far.  That ratio change is increasing my TDD the most, as my basal rates aren’t too ramped up.
  • A1C remains exactly where I want it.  As does my blood pressure.  My weight is … weighty, but my son is in a very good percentile, so that’s my main concern.  I’ll gain a few extra here and there so long as he is fine.
  • And I remain afraid to put my infusion set into the taut, bulbous chaos that my stomach has become, so my insulin pump has been rotating around my hips and arms for the last few months.  Thankfully, as I get bigger, real estate options expand as well, but it gets harder to install new sites when I can’t exactly bend at the waist.
  • HA!!  Waist.  I don’t have one of those anymore.  It was left behind back in May sometime.  See ya.
  • Siah thinks the baby’s room is HER new room, which is bullshit.  Even when we have the door shut, she picks the lock and eases herself in there, sleeping on the toy box in the corner and burping occasionally.
  • These cats have no idea what they’re in for.  Again.
  • Truly in the home stretch now.  “Stretch” being the operative word, as I have real concerns about the stability of my belly button.  I fear that if I cough or roll the wrong way, it will launch from my body and hit the wall, like a champagne bottle cork.
  • Bring it on, kiddo.  I’m ready to meet you soon.  And to be reunited with a view of my feet.

 

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