Sugar Free

Spring Break is over, and we're in mourning.

Well, almost.  Cael spent seven or eight solid days begging me to send him to school, Graham spent seven or eight solid days picking on Cael, and I spent the time willing the boys to let me sleep in.

On a related note, Cael and Graham spent seven or eight solid days waking me up at 6:45am.  Some dreams just aren't in the cards, I guess.

We had great plans for what we would do over the break-- the places we could go, projects to tackle and all of the television shows we could binge-watch on Netflix.  But on Tuesday morning, I got an unexpected phone call.  One of the draws on my glucose tolerance test was elevated by two points.  I was being diagnosed with Gestational Diabetes.

 

Not the end of the world, of course, but unbelievably frustrating when I learned that the threshold for diagnosis was recently lowered, and had I taken the test earlier I would not be spending my Spring Break sticking myself with needles and writing down everything I eat.  Or thinking nonstop about the things I couldn't eat.

As I write this, I only have four days of this diabetic routine under my belt, so I am no great resource for someone being diagnosed with gestational diabetes.  I am, however, pretty observant and I've learned a few things that, if you're a mother-to-be, you can count on if you are given the same diagnosis.

- You never stop missing macaroni and cheese.

-  Carbohydrates are in everything.  I've eaten more meat and cheese in the last week than I have in my combined 30 years, and when I hit my limit on Saturday afternoon and nearly bit into a couch cushion just to have something different, I checked my reference book only to find that couch cushions will indeed raise my blood sugar.  Back to the veggies.  (Which have carbs, by the way.)

 

-  Pregnancy does something to a mother's brain that makes even the simplest tasks nearly impossible.  My memory is shot, my math skills are abysmal, and as a result, my food log is a jumbled mess of crossed-out words and numbers that even the most astute dietician would not be able to decipher.  The only upside?  I'm too tired and mentally disoriented to feel embarrassed about it.

-  Six year-olds seem unable to express empathy when their parent's wounds are self-inflicted.  Each time I have to lance myself to test my blood sugar, Cael's response is less "are you okay?" and more "LOOK WHAT YOU JUST DID... NOW YOU'RE GOING TO DIE!"

-  Seriously.  1/4 cup of macaroni and cheese is not sufficient for anyone.

-  But as much as I hate it, if these steps are what are needed to make sure my little man comes out safe and healthy, I'll do it gladly.  

 

Hungrily, but gladly.