At least one of us sleeps (occasionally)

Fialka Ruby

Born 2/21/06, 11:09 pm
8 lbs., 15 oz., 22 inches

Fialka means "violet" in Czech. Fi's last name and paternal lineage are Czech.
Ruby is Fi's maternal great grandmother.

Dad doing well, mom not so well but lots better after polishing off the better part of a Zingerman's Perky Pecan Pie.

Many, many thanks to online and in-the-flesh friends for interest, support, and kind words. Hope to have more pics soon.

Must sleep first.

Fashionably Late

Well, it seems that baby girl has decided to make her entrance fashionably late. I visited the OB today, and the internal exam suggested that I've made no progress since last week's exam, which showed no progress since the week before, which showed no progress since the week before that. In other words, I've been in a cervical holding pattern (80% effaced, undilated) for almost 4 weeks.

Which meant we needed to talk induction. Now, I am very proud of the fact that I was diagnosed with gestational diabetes at 8 weeks and have managed it successfully, without insulin, for almost 33 weeks now. The head OB nurse said I'm the first patient she's known in 20 years who was diagnosed that early and didn't end up needing insulin. The other OB nurse told me I'm the most compliant diabetic patient she's ever known. (I guess people around here need their Krispy Kreme.) I told them both that if they gave me a big-five personality test, I'd score off the charts on conscientiousness and neuroticism, so my compliance isn't necessarily a good thing. I'm also blessed with a robust case of the Disease to Please and a pathetic and desperate need for external validation, all of which have been crushing burdens until now. It's nice that for once all of my personality flaws have actually done me some good.

BUT -- it's not good enough. Letting a pregnant woman go 42 weeks before induction can be risky. The placenta can degrade, the baby can become too big for a vaginal delivery, there can be meconium (poop to you and me) in the amniotic fluid. All of these risks are higher in women with gestational diabetes. So my OB doesn't want me to go past 41 weeks, and I am inclined to agree. (Then again, that could be the Disease to Please talkin'.)

Therefore, we've scheduled an induction for Tuesday February 21 -- assuming baby girl decides not to make her entrance before that.

It's surreal to think that a week from now, either way, we'll have an infant in the house.

Is it too late to take it all back?

Is it the pregnancy glow or Benefit Dallas? Only she knows for sure.

Preg Pics for Barbara

Barbara at Women on the Verge of Thinking has been hounding me to post pregnancy pictures. Given what a sad week she's had (plus the fact that I'm due to deliver any day now), I decided it was finally time to do so. The teensy amount of satisfaction these pictures give her is more important than my vanity.

Of course, taking the pictures was the first step. We did that last night while celebrating G's birthday. I'm inordinately proud of the cake I made from scratch: a pineapple-coconut number with four layers separated by Italian meringue frosting and crushed macadamia nuts, spackled with coconut. It doesn't look impressive in the picture, but let me tell you, it was, especially with Haagen Dazs pineapple and coconut ice cream.

(A word to those who've grown accustomed to seeing me with blond hair: I darkened it with a semipermanent shine-sealant wood stain type of product last summer and have kept it dark since. It's been a fun change. I can wear red lipstick now without looking all tarty.)

The front view gives little hint of...

...the BUMP!!!

Another Demonic Tot from plan59.com

Crazy Food Dreams

I've never been a believer in the psychoanalytic interpretation of dreams. Who's to say what some object, say, a white glove, "means?" It might pop up in one person's dream as a symbol of purity; in another's as a symbol of anxiety associated with memories of failing the "white glove" test at boot camp; and in still another's as a symbol of residual terror from that trip to Disney World, when the guy in the Mickey Mouse suit put his hands where he shouldn't have. I don't think there is any unidimensional, generalizeable "meaning" for any given element of a dream. I don't think there can be.

Except, that is, when it comes to food. I can vouch for this. Since my baby has grown to giant proportions (she's more of an in-utero toddler at this point, and I am convinced she'll exceed two feet when she's born), she's been sucking up vast quantities of glucose from my blood. I can't keep up with her. I now eat plenty of carbs at night but my fasting glucose in the morning is still in the 50s and 60s (very low), and my ketone levels suggest "starvation." But I don't need to prick my finger or pee on a stick to find this out. All I have to do is consult my dreams.

A few nights ago, I dreamt I was shopping for gourmet chocolate in a hardware store (ah, those wacky, wacky dreams), and even though I was surrounded by delicious, beautifully-wrapped chocolates, I never got to eat them because I couldn't decide which ones to buy. My blood glucose that morning was 58. Two days later, I dreamt I was sitting in a restaurant, waiting to be served, growing increasingly despondent as I watched the waitress deliver steaming plates of food to diners all around me. Freud would say such a dream represents sexual frustration or a sublimated desire to kill my relatives, but I know better: my blood glucose was 62; I was hungry.

The picture above pretty much represents the dirty little thoughts with which my id is preoccupied these days. And yes, given a huge piece of chocolate cake, I would eat it the exact same way, sans fork, with the exact same facial expression. The creepiest thing about the ad (for Pillsbury cake mix, 1954), is the copy that accompanied it: "Mother, I love you." *shudder* The folks at www.plan59.com capitalized on this creepiness by inserting an additional message that appears when you drag your mouse over the picture: "...but you're still not as delicious as Daddy was!" So, okay, maybe Freud wasn't entirely wrong.

All beans and no pork make Jack a dull boy...

Eat it and weep

Aren't You Hungry?

Check out this appetizing photo from Plan59, one of my new favorite websites. (Thanks, Maria, for first sending me there.) The adjoining recipe for "Peas in Potato Boats" was part of a 1949 ad for Birdseye frozen foods.

Am I the only one who sees yonic symbolism here? Am I the only one recoiling at the leukocytic look of that white sauce?

Ads like these do more to advance my understanding of my parents, who were born in 1941 and thus spent their childhoods eating meals like this, than all of the hours with my therapist combined.

To Bravely Go...

...where billions of women have gone before: Planet Labor.

If it's so normal, why is it so intimidating?

*shudder*