More 33-ish Weeks
I may have gained only one pound over the past month, but the baby is apparently still growing just fine; at my appointment with the midwife today, the measurements and her heart rate were all on track. In the days before each of my appointments, I become convinced that everything is going wrong—she’s moving too much; she’s moved too far over on one side; I can’t possibly be big enough; surely my blood pressure is sky-high; etc.—and it’s always nice, and somewhat surprising, to hear that everything is actually okay.
My near-zero weight gain is due to this diabetic diet I’m on, and I was instructed by the midwife to eat more. She also gave me the permission I’d been waiting for: I do not have to follow this diet to the letter, and as long as I steer clear of sweets, white rice, and white flour, I’ll be fine. And if I do want a little dessert, she said that was okay—just have a small portion along with the meal, not on its own. And if Andrew and I want to have a nice Italian dinner out next time we’re in San Francisco, that’s okay too.
This is a relief. I am a rule-following, low-risk-taking person by nature, and if someone tells me I have to, say, measure out each serving of nuts I consume, I will do so diligently. (In my mind, of course, each errant nut puts the baby in danger of tripling in size.) Alas, I still won’t be running out for any hot fudge sundaes, but I did have a tiny square of fig cookie with lunch. So the chains have loosened a bit. And the end is in sight. Andrew and I are discussing the logistics of his holding a Blizzard in my line of vision in the delivery room as my inspiration to get through those final pushes.
My near-zero weight gain is due to this diabetic diet I’m on, and I was instructed by the midwife to eat more. She also gave me the permission I’d been waiting for: I do not have to follow this diet to the letter, and as long as I steer clear of sweets, white rice, and white flour, I’ll be fine. And if I do want a little dessert, she said that was okay—just have a small portion along with the meal, not on its own. And if Andrew and I want to have a nice Italian dinner out next time we’re in San Francisco, that’s okay too.
This is a relief. I am a rule-following, low-risk-taking person by nature, and if someone tells me I have to, say, measure out each serving of nuts I consume, I will do so diligently. (In my mind, of course, each errant nut puts the baby in danger of tripling in size.) Alas, I still won’t be running out for any hot fudge sundaes, but I did have a tiny square of fig cookie with lunch. So the chains have loosened a bit. And the end is in sight. Andrew and I are discussing the logistics of his holding a Blizzard in my line of vision in the delivery room as my inspiration to get through those final pushes.
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