|New sweatpants. Go Hunters!|
Level Three: You will be given a general outline of the character you're carrying into the final round. Gender acknowledged; Limbs, organs and chromosomes will be counted. Missing a kidney? This will require side missions to meet with experts.
Level Four: Glucose Tolerance Test. Drink lemon-lime glucose drink, wait an hour, test blood. Terrifying video game voice announces: YOU FAIL.
Spend past weekend preparing to take an extended version of the test. This requires consuming 350 grams of Carbohydrates a day for three days, fasting 12 hours, then taking a three-hour Glucose Tolerance Test first thing in the morning. Get blood drawn. Slug down orange-flavored drink. Feel woozy. Get blood drawn again. Again. And again.
"Of course you're at risk for gestational diabetes," JCrew says. "You're 37 years old!"
And you're confused. You never think of 37 as old and you never think of your body not being able to do something, especially something as basic as managing insulin. Heck, you used to be able to take this bag of bones and, through a complicated system of footwork, fling your body 37 feet into a sandpit. This body one time ran 26.2 miles cold, without training. It has a history of doing what it is called upon to do. Except riding a bike. That is torture.
Besides. You've Googled it: Anyone can get gestational diabetes. Screw the 37 years old business.
You pass this time, but not strongly enough to not feel a little toxic. Not necessarily Wilford Brimley zone, but maybe it's time to Just Say No to the donut or the Red Velvet Cupcake or the Peanut Butter Captain Crunch. Trade out the English Muffin for multigrain bread. Make sure carbs are balanced with proteins. Snack on carrots instead of Skittles.
Rue the fact that this opportunity to gain 30 pounds must now be done responsibly. Eat salmon for dinner and think: "Maybe that's not so bad after all."
My parents came to town spontaneously on Tuesday toting a gift bag filled with tiny fruit-themed onesies, exponentially increasing the possessions of our PBG. To this point, the only thing to her name is a pair of red and white stripped booties they got her for Christmas. No bed. No car seat. No tiny hats with ears, but I've got my eyes on a few pairs. A bedroom that is still housing a dusty single mattress and box spring, cardboard boxes, books I'm not interested in reading and a pair of flip flops decorated with fake daisies -- which is really out of character for me, I might add.
I think my mom wanted to see what I looked like wearing a soccer ball-sized uterus. That 3-Hour Glucose Tolerance Test was a good excuse to come to town. Also: She seems hell bent on buying us a chair for the baby's room. Like this idea is in her head and now it cannot be dislodged. She will buy a chair for the baby's room and it will be a glider with a matching footstool. Which is great, because, FREE CHAIR. But also tricky. Have you ever tried to find a glider with matching footstool that didn't look like it belonged to the exact opposite people you would want to invite you to a dinner party?
Anyway, my mom says my ribs will probably never go back to normal.