You Scream, I Scream, We All Scream for Ice Cream

I really never expected that I’d be able to go the whole week and not call about the GD results, but as the week wore on, my resolve got stronger and stronger. Toward the end of the week, I had what I think must have been some round ligament pain—very painful pain—and I contemplated calling the midwife’s office. But I didn’t, and do you know why? Because I was afraid they would tell me the GD results then too. And by that point in the week, I didn’t want to know anymore. I was enjoying following the sage advice of my midwife: enjoy it while you can.

And enjoy I did: I ate dessert nearly every night. Whether we were out or stayed home, you can bet there was some sort of ice cream or pastry at the end of the night. It may have only been a bite, and shared more often than not, but I was still sure to get every sweet morsel off the plate. However there was a dark side to this. Even though to kith and kin I was bravado about being sure I did not have the gestational diabetes, in my heart of hearts, I still worried. I’m not a small girl, folks, and that weighed on my mind. I thought about my grandfather’s diabetes and my great-grandfather too. And it may have been in my mind, but I felt sure I saw my father’s eyes boring into the dessert plate on more than one occasion. There’s no judgment like silent judgment. And then my own dark thoughts set in. What if I did have the GD and still was eating all the sweeties? Bad mother and the kid hasn’t even been born yet. Bad mother!

The Sunday we got home, we were driving to church and both of us were starting to feel the stress seep slowly back into our lives. We outlined to each other some of the things we were worried about, and high on my list was calling the midwife’s office to get the GD results. I dreaded it.

After all, how could I get the results when I hadn’t even found this yet? (I did taste the Sticky Toffee Pudding variety though, and I’ll just say, it works. Quite nicely.)

We lingered after church at the coffee hour, which was very nice, and came home to do some last minute straightening up for the open house. It was at that point I decided I should finally listen to the messages on the answering machine. You have four messages. First one: Laura Bush. Second one: George W. Bush. (I kid you not. Recorded messages, albeit, encouraging me to vote for the incumbent Republican in the primary election. Buahahhaha!) Third message: Partner’s aunt. Last message: Nurse from midwife clinic. Telling me. My tests results. Were. Completely. Normal.

This gleeful news has inspired me in myriad ways. One, I bought white bread. We haven’t had white bread in the house since, well, ever. I suppose that’s a small lie; we’ve had white bread if you count a baguette as white bread, but yesterday I bought sliced Italian white bread. I am drinking cranberry juice and Gatorade sans sentiments de culpabilité. And it’s wonderful. And I even found the Mayan Chocolate ice cream at my favorite grocery store yesterday! (It would have been okay if I had never tasted it. I didn’t quite live up to my expectations.) Monday even Aunt NYC was in town and brought me this, which I’ve managed to have a few tastes of, and it must be said, I have out and out relished that I wasn’t doing horrible things to me or Cricket. I know this isn’t carte blanche to eat crappy— But it sure is nice to eat to eat a sweet and not feel overwhelmed by guilt.

It’s probably short lived though, because my own guess is that they’re going to make go through this particular version of purgatory again at 28 weeks. Until then, I’m going back to being the bon vivant.