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| Pos’sicle. |
This weekend was nuts.
Not because we left Chicago during rush hour- which we did- to spend a day and a half in Cincinnati, allowing ourselves the privilege of multiple hours along Indiana’s most scenic of highways (also true).
And not because it was our first free weekend without overnight guests since early June- which was also strangely true. (What is the allure, people? We have no central A/C and are asleep on the couch as soon as NJ heads to her crib. At least 11 people who might have previously thought we joke about this point have since been bored to sleep in our guest room.)
What made the weekend truly wacky was the unsettling phone call I received at 10am on Friday morning from my Baby Doctor. (Very different from my Baby Daddy, the reason why were traversing to Cincy in the first place.)
The Baby Doctor told me that all of my fasting and glucose challenging and bruised-up inner arminess had yielded a result much worse result than those three individual moments of awful; I had been diagnosed with gestational diabetes. Which is confusing and sucky and rather difficult to handle on a road trip.
And since I have yet to visit the newly required endocrinologist and nutritionist, I HAD NO IDEA WHAT TO EAT. Oh sure, I could easily avoid Slurpees and Whoppers (sigh), but which Subway bread is okay at the rest stop? Can I have tomatoes? And did anyone actually hear me order a tall, iced, half-caf soy latte with a shot of sugar free hazelnut? (I would’ve spit in my own drink, if I had to serve me.)
I ended up eating a lot of whole wheat English muffins this weekend. And- inexplicably- half a tub of sugar-free Cool Whip. (I’m sure glad they set this baby’s dietary habits back on track.)
I did take advantage of a relatively quiet Schoeny weekend by napping when Nora napped. Hydrating every time someone offered a glass of water. Letting others chase Nora down the hill. And back up it. And down once more. And whenever someone suggested that I elevate my feet- I would actually do it. And guess what? It was pretty great. Nothing fell apart while I laid low. Sure, Nora hasn’t been truly “bathed” since Thursday night, but she seems awfully happy.
So maybe the unexpected benefit of this diagnosis is that I’ll actually take a little bit better care of myself. Eat a tad healthier. Heck, let someone else make me a snack.
Maybe even something beyond English muffins and/or tubs o’ The Whip.
My scurvy-ridden baby thanks you in advance.
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