Facebook is Trying to Kill My Blog and So Are YOU
I don’t sleep much anymore. When I’m not waking up with contractions or waking up because my bladder is being used as a trampoline, I’m just hanging out in bed, staring at the wall and praying sleep will come. This is my body preparing for the huge sleep deficit I’ll soon be dealing with on a regular basis. I’m such a grumpy person when I don’t get enough rest; and I’m older this time around with more responsibility (two kids to get off to school each morning, starting next week!!!) so I can only imagine the fun my entire family is in for in the coming weeks and months.
One would think, with all this non-sleeping time, that I’d have plenty of time and desire to write here. But that hasn’t been the case.
I was thinking about why it’s been so difficult for me to write here lately and there are a couple reasons that I came up with that seem to make sense, besides that crazy foot fetish person creeping me out.
First, Facebook has made a pre-meditated attempt to kill my blog. Why write an entire post when one can take a picture with a phone, upload and leave a little comment and be done with it? Why say in paragraphs what can be said and shown in only a sentence and broadcasted to all the other Facebook addicts? It’s just a whole lot easier. And once it already lives on Facebook, then what’s the point of saying it here, in many more words when people are as strapped for time as I am? I realize this isn’t the case with everyone. I had a visit with a friend the other day who asked me what was up with me not writing so much anymore. I couldn’t really explain it all; but there’s more to it than just Facebook killing it.
When everyone, and your mother, reads your blog, it can be stifling and writer’s block inducing. If you scroll back through posts from years ago, you’ll find that some of my best were rants about annoying or stupid people. I’m good at those rants; but when everyone you know is reading your blog, it’s kind of difficult to write about anything controversial or potentially upsetting to another person. People who know you talk, misconstrue things and make trouble. It’s a fact of life. I’m always jealous of those bloggers who do such a great job self-promoting. I waver somewhere between the wanting to be completely anonymous and wanting to be a rock star blogger. I liked the anonymity that writing a blog used to give me. I will never forget the day that I found out that some of my karate friends had found my blog and were, GASP, reading it!!!! I came home from the dojo and instantly started analyzing every post I had ever written. Did I write anything that someone could find offensive or inappropriate? To this day, I still feel myself blushing and getting paranoid when someone new tells me they’ve been reading my blog. How do you write about that monster of a child who enters your own child’s life only to make it hell when her mother reads your blog? (You’re all wondering if I’m talking about you now, aren’t you? See, next time I see you, it’s going to be awkward.)
In one respect, I’m completely flattered that my friends, neighbors and family members read my blog. I want more readers. I want more subscribers. I’d like to turn my blog into a conglomerate “Pioneer Woman” style. But then, I don’t write about food and the ranch. I write about life in general and sometimes I can be a bit snarky. And don’t even try to lie about it; that’s why most of you like me anyway!
A couple months ago, I went through a ton of drama in my life. Some of it is still on-going. Suffice it to say that there are a couple people who hate my guts because of it; and they happen to be the same people who have been duped by the true culprits in the whole situation. I wanted to write about it and scream out the truth to everyone about what truly happened. I’m a “shoots straight from the hip” kind of person, but I agreed to a certain confidentiality (that others seemed to forget about instantly) and have kept my mouth shut. It made my life unpleasant. To write about it would have been a great relief to me. Perhaps that’s part of the reason why I stopped writing, because it’s like trying to ignore the elephant in the room. When you know there’s one thing you can’t write about, somehow it’s the only thing you do want to write about. Therefore, you write nothing.
Since then, I’ve done a good job of eliminating unnecessary stress from my life (people too); but let’s be honest. . . when the karate blogger stops attending karate classes and gets pregnant, she’s really just a Mommy blogger and that is one blogging area that is beyond saturated.
I’m going to try to get back to writing more. Since I haven’t been able to kick things or people, I clearly need some kind of release and a place to express myself. Perhaps I should worry less about what other people think about what I say and just put it all out there. Regardless of what I decide to write about, the truth is that in less than six weeks, I’m be giving birth, and clearly, given that you hung on my every word during my three knee surgeries and tales of constipation, you’re all going to want the gruesome details of that right?
I mean clearly, you’d be crazy not to. . .
The Best Parents Ever
One of the serious negatives about being pregnant and anemic at the same time is that it is sometimes very difficult to find energy to do much of anything. I’m not much of a sitting around type of girl, but lately, that’s about the only thing I’m capable of comfortably doing. Thanks to a healthy infusion of green leafy vegetables, edamame and more red meat than you can find at your local butcher, I started feeling a little better this week; but there are still moments when lifting my arms is just way too intense. Mr. BBM did bring home a nice big bottle of Floradix for me last night. If you’re not familiar, it’s basically a bottle of liquid iron. It says it has lots of fruit juice in it to hide the nastiness, but it tastes like something a vampire would very much enjoy. Imagine having about five teeth knocked out at once to a gush of blood and throw in a chaser of rusty nails. . . it actually tastes worse than that. You should also avoid taking it in the evenings; I found out the hard way last night. The last thing you want to do after taking a shot of that business is get horizontal. After it goes down, you want it to stay down. Trust me.
Due to all this hanging out on the couch time that I’ve been doing lately, the girls have been subjected to a bit more TV than usual. Thanks to our crazy schedule this summer, we haven’t watched very much TV at all; but I have found two shows that are capable of bringing our family together like no other shows have done before: Supernanny and Toddlers and Tiaras.
Supernanny is the show that Sassy lovingly refers to as “that bad kid show,” and boy, there are some bad ones on there. Last week, there was a show that featured a little boy, about Sassy’s age, who would get ticked off and then run out of the house towards the street. He also spent a good deal of time hitting his Mom, calling her swear words, and spitting at people. Sassy and Big I sat mesmerized by this kid. You could have heard a pin drop in our house. Frequently, after an especially horrible outburst by the little demon, Sassy would look at me and say, “I would NEVER do that to you.”
Frequently, the parents on those shows are as messed up and insane as the kids, so I will often get a “You’re the BEST Mommy” during the course of us watching that show too. Last week, Sassy cuddled up right next to me and was wrapping her arms around me the whole time. Bad kids seriously freak her out. It’s amazing how much better behaved and how much more helpful the girls are after watching an episode of Supernanny. I kind of think it’s going to become a staple here in our house when I need them to listen better.
The other show that happened to come on yesterday afternoon is Toddlers and Tiaras. This show had both of my girls staring dumbfounded at the TV. The kids are over the top; the parents are absolute nightmares. One parents sat there directly in front of her daughter, clearly disappointed and livid that her daughter had won the “Natural Beauty” part of the pageant instead of the “Glitz” part of the pageant. Hmm, let’s see. Would I be happier if my daughter won an award for looking the way she’s supposed to look or for looking like a total hussy? It’s sort of a no-brainer. Meanwhile, the Mom sat there in a t-shirt that was too big for her, wearing a ponytail that made her look like she just rolled out of bed, scowling with disgust at her daughter, the judges and the other contestants. Talk about a group of people who need the Supernanny!
Big I was in absolute awe. “Sassy, we have the BEST parents ever. We are SO lucky,” she said to her sister. Sassy answered that with a big hug for me. Then Big I talked about earning trophies this summer for swimming, not for putting on fake eyelashes and teasing her hair, and how good it felt to work hard at something and get a trophy that truly means something. It was a proud parenting moment, followed by two kids who immediately got in their pajamas when I told them it was time, the first time.
Yep, reality TV is capable of giving even young children a healthy appreciation for the awesome parents they have at home. I think they are partially afraid I’ll put them in a glitz pageant or call the Supernanny if they don’t listen to me too. Whatever works.
Antithebliss
When I was newly pregnant, nauseated 24/7 and basking in a nice concoction of “ohmygodImpregnantagain” and excitement, I had a conversation with a friend about the trimesters of pregnancy. The first one is just miserable if you’re anything like me. I spent the entire first trimester eating almost nothing but pickled eggs, and turning green at the slightest hint of a coffee smell. The second trimester, my friend called, “bliss.” The 4-6 month mark is where you’re still small enough that your belly isn’t a hindrance and the nauseated business is coming to an end. You feel like you’re getting somewhere and the shock of it all has somewhat worn off and has instead been replaced with hopeful anticipation. . .
I reached 28 weeks today and if the 2nd trimester is “bliss,” then the third can only be described as none other than “antithebliss.”
Sure, you’re excited that the countdown is on. Yes, those sassy Braxton-Hicks contractions are a reminder that the end is indeed near. But right about now is when I swear I could rip someone’s eyeballs out or worse. Don’t even try me.
My back has started to ache, pretty much 24/7 (sort of like the nausea of the first trimester, constant and annoying). This time around, my hips are absolutely killing me. It’s like I can actually feel them separating and getting ready for the big event. And if that isn’t bad enough, any phantom pains left over from the knee surgery of last summer, are amplified and making all my joints feel post-surgical. The baby is also waking me up almost every night with either crazy kicks, stomach-altering stretches that make me feel like he is literally pushing himself off of my bed or hiccups that are frequent and strong. And if you think I’m cranky, meet my husband.
Today I got up early and picked Big I up from swim practice, then rushed home for a quick shower before a friend stopped by to make a Miche Bag purchase. As soon as she left, I piled the girls into the car and was off on a 45 minute drive to meet up with my Miche distributor for lunch. On the way home, I realized I’d be driving past the appliance place where we bought our refrigerator. Our air filter has been on red for weeks now; as in “CHANGE ME NOW PEOPLE!” so I marveled at the fact that I had actually remembered something for a change and ran in to pick one up. I told them the model number and my name; they handed me the filter and I was off. I then found a discontinued crib at an awesome price and bought it, added a few items to my “sprinkle” registry, and then drove the new crib, in pieces, home. I then unloaded it from the van, piece by piece and carried it up to the baby’s soon-to-be-room, right now the most disastrous area in the house. Then I threw dinner in the oven, while doing laundry, watering the plants outside, and reminding myself that I really needed to sit down at some point. I got my break for all of 15 minutes while I inhaled my dinner before cleaning it all up. A few minutes later, I was sitting out on the patio, watching the girls play when Mr. BBM arrived home. He appeared at the sliding glass door holding the air filter and then proceeded to berate me for getting “the wrong one.” And why did I buy it anyway when he can just get it online?
Perhaps because the light has been red for like EVER and I thought I was doing us both a favor.If it can be purchased online so easily, then why didn’t he just do it? Chalk it up to a long day at work; but it wasn’t just tonight.
Last night, I got a much-needed back rub, most of the time with one hand while he scrolled through his Android with the other.
Yes, it’s different being pregnant the third time around, in many ways. And yes, I’ve been there, done that before, but that doesn’t make it any easier to get through it. In fact, when you’re going through it, many years older, with a 10-year old and a 5-year old already in the house, it makes it a whole lot harder.
I did get a taste of “bliss” this past Saturday, when my midwife called and said that I had passed my second 1-hour glucose challenge with flying colors. I seem to have avoided gestational diabetes this pregnancy, which means I can have this baby at the birth center, avoid all those bothersome fetal non-stress tests and sticking myself all the time, and along with all of that, stop worrying about it. Tomorrow I’m scheduled for my Rho-Gam shot and that is the very last time anyone should be sticking me for the duration of the pregnancy. There’s something to be happy about for sure.
Don’t get me wrong. Overall I am happy and excited that in about 12 weeks or less, I’m going to meet this little man. It’s just hard to be a happy pregnant girl all the time when you’re spending so much of your life doing crazy plie squats with cranky hips to pick up random little girl flip-flops so as to avoid squishing your baby, when the baby’s room hasn’t even been started and you just don’t know when you’re even going to get to it, and when your husband seems to be nearly as hormonal and unreasonable as you happen to be.
I’m warning you all; steer clear of me unless you’re offering up a complimentary back rub, volunteering to paint the baby’s room, or have an air filter for my refrigerator that actually works. Otherwise, I can’t guarantee I won’t bite.
Not the Result I Was Hoping For
This morning I went to my midwife’s for my 1-hour glucose tolerance test. I completely forgot how nasty that stuff is until I took the first sip. It made me shudder. I don’t ingest that many sugars ever, so it was a real shock to my system. I should have known the result would be high, because as I sat there, my head started to hurt and I felt miserable. At one point, shortly after drinking it, I started coughing and thought it was going to result in throwing up. It was fabulous fun.
While I sat there letting the glucola work it’s way through my system, I read my file. All the notes about Sassy’s birth were in my file. “Uncomplicated” was checked in all areas minus the pregnancy part, the previous gestational diabetes. I’ve been telling people I was in labor for over 15 hours with Sassy but it was actually 16 according to their notes. I pushed for all of 10 minutes though before she was born, a 7 lb. 10 oz. baby that was the picture of perfection.
At the one hour mark, the nurse drew my blood for both the sugar and an A1C. When she stuck me it hurt more than usual and it took a while for my blood to get flowing into the viles. She did something wrong because usually I’m not sore after having blood drawn but I’m wicked sore right now and anticipate that I’ll be bruised tomorrow. When I left the office, I sat in the car and used my own glucose monitor to prick my finger and get a reading. It came back at 155. It was probably over 160 from my arm and with the couple minutes difference.
I immediately felt deflated. Despite completely changing my diet over the last 5.5. years, despite entering this pregnancy 10 lbs. lighter than I did with Sassy, it’s likely I’m going to end up having to take the 3-hour test. It’s likely I’m going to have a lot more intervention than I want. I know I shouldn’t, but I let my mind go to all the bad places. . . diabetes that doesn’t go away, a birth at the hospital instead of the birth center like I desperately want. I know I’m getting ahead of myself but it’s difficult not to do that when you’ve been down this road before.
I drove home and ate some protein and washed it down with unsweetened tea. I felt a little better. I went to pick up Sassy at Preschool. She greeted me with a huge smile and we talked the entire way home about what she had done at school and about our upcoming vacation. I took a good look at her in my van spy mirror as she sat there in her lavender skirt, her shoes and headband sparkling, and I reminded myself that no matter what happens, it will all be worth it.
She was.
I Swear I’ll Deliver This Baby Myself
Filed under: Mental Strain for Mama, Things that get my gi all in a bunch, Woah Baby
On Friday I had another midwife appointment. I’m now going on 19 weeks pregnant. With each of my previous pregnancies, reaching 20 weeks was such a milestone. I could start counting down the weeks instead of up. Half way there. I went to my appointment in such a good mood.
It was quickly ruined.
My midwife, usually always so laid back and open to questions and conversation, was in a rush. She had a situation at the hospital. And what she did have to say to me, I didn’t like one bit.
All cases are reviewed with the supervising OB doctor. Like most doctors, he doesn’t want to take the conservative approach to my potentially high-risk pregnancy due to my being a gestational diabetic last time. So, instead of waiting until the typical 24-28 weeks, he wants me to do a 1-hour glucose-tolerance test this week, which means he’ll also want me to do one at the 24 and probably 28 week mark too.
Here’s what he does not realize, but I plan to make him realize when I go for my ultrasound on May 24th.
First, my Mom is a Type 1 Diabetic. I am well aware of what diabetes is and how it can potentially affect me and my baby. That’s why, since I was diagnosed with gestational diabetes with Sassy, my diet has drastically changed. I always ate well, but I eat ridiculously well since then. I don’t drink any sugared drinks at all. When I drink orange juice, I pour a tiny bit in a cup and water it down. I drink milk a half cup at a time due to the sugars in milk. I count carbs and combine carbohydrates with proteins. I only eat whole grain breads and pastas. I avoid sweets except in very limited amounts. I never stopped eating well because if the diabetes is going to come back and stay, it comes back typically, within five years. It’s been five years and my blood sugars are normal. I know this because I have a blood glucose monitor and since the day I found out I was expecting a “bonus” baby, I’ve been randomly testing my blood sugars. . . fasting ones, 1 hour post-breakfast, lunch and dinner. Each and every one has been normal, completely normal. In fact, they’ve been more normal than most average people.
I’ve also gained a total of 2 lbs. this entire pregnancy so far. Two. Clearly I’m eating well.
More-so than anyone, I know the risks because I’ve been through this before, and because I’ve been the daughter of a brittle diabetic for almost 32 years. I wouldn’t put myself or my baby at risk, but I really want this doctor to back off. At the first sign of trouble, I’d be happy to let them know I’m having a problem. I’m not going to be stupid about it. Like I said, I know the risks. . .
But stress does awful things to your body and from the minute I found out I was pregnant, I was scared. I don’t want to have gestational diabetes again. I don’t want the GD to turn into full blown diabetes. I see what my Mom has to deal with and the three month taste of it that I had, was plenty, thank you very much. So from the minute I found out I was expecting, I made a conscious decision that I would be careful, but that I wouldn’t stress myself out. Now that I know others are stressing, I’m stressing. And it ticks me off, because I felt like I was going through this pregnancy on my own terms and now I’m not.
I’ll take that 1-hour glucose tolerance test this week. But when it comes back normal and then I’m asked to do it again in a couple weeks, I’m going to stand firm and say “no.” I have a glucose monitor and I am a responsible, informed and educated adult. I chose a midwife because I didn’t want extra intervention. I honestly feel like firing them all and just delivering this baby by myself. All of this medical intervention is unnecessary and unwarranted. Maybe other pregnant women like doctors fussing over them and offering every test possible. I’m not that girl.
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