Whenever someone asks me about pregnancy, I just tell them it was the time I learned to love my gut. I loved people to touch it, loved that it was hard and round. Love loved loved my stomach.
Because the rest of it was weird.
I got pregnant on vacation, a business trip that we both happened to be on in Vancouver if you want to get technical, which makes Declan half-Canadian if you want to get more technical, and if you want to get really really really technical – there is only one time in one day where he could have been conceived. February 8th, 2002. Around 3pm in the afternoon. IF you want to get technical.
Have you ever told your co-workers you may have become pregnant the day before? It’s weird.
Flash forward three months and we’re tra-la-la-laing through the pregnancy like it we’re running through a sunny meadow and the doctor suddenly puzzles over my urine. Have you ever had anyone puzzle over your urine? It’s weird.
Come to find out, I was spilling sugars like crazy, so they move up my glucose test. Which I abjectly fail. Fail so badly I had to lay down after drinking the un-fizzy orange drink. Lime they had to FIND a place for me to lay down because that had never happened before. Have YOU ever had to lay down during a glucose test? It’s weird.
The test results come back and my doctor is yelling at me so loud I have to hold the phone about 10 feet from my ear, then was rushed on to insulin shots THAT NIGHT and once wave after shocking wave of realization washed over me that, yes, I have been diabetic for what could have been years before this pregnancy, I thought, “this is really weird.”
So, I get over my fear of needles, I get the blood sugars under control and I am back on the merry happy path that was my pregnancy. Except for Declan had other plans. He decided he wanted to come two months early in a very spectacular fashion. Not even anything related to the diabetes even. I will spare you all the details, but let’s just say it involved more yelling from my doctor and some knives. Oh, and me on my hands and knees on a gurney with my booty in the air.
THAT. WAS. WEIRD.
But it all worked out. Declan was fine, I was fine. My husband? Maybe not so fine, but he could deal.
So, maybe in the end, I didn’t get all huge and puffy and wobbly like some ladies who go the full nine months – which is why I loved my stomach so much.
But that’s OK. It’s what came out of it that matters.
From Aimee of Greeblemonkey.
Note: for the duration of my pregnancy, I’ll be posting stories about pregnancy, childbirth and growing a family on Wednesdays. You can find them all by clicking here.