Making friends with Mr Bump

The nutrition nazi wars have continued – I’ve been keeping a food diary, emailing it to my dietician twice a week, faxing my endocrinologist my Bloody Glucose Levels once a week. I am, let’s say, VERY accountable. Every movement counts, everything I lift counts, everything I eat counts, every Blood Glucose Test counts.

I’m on my TENTH week of bedrest, which has morphed this week into less bed and laying this week, and more sittiing, or doing little things around the house in short bursts. I’m really easily tired out, and I guess that’s not that surprising given my inactivity of recent weeks. This is SO far from the pregnancy I’d envisioned (boxercise twice a week, work up til 38 weeks, a normal life, pre natal yoga, going out etc). I am SO FAR from a sit at home and look after yourself sort of person.  But I’m finding my own space within the “apartment rest” restrictions. It is harder and more frustrating when you feel a bit better physcially. Not that I’m complaining. I’m very happy we’ve got this far, and hopefully turned a corner.

So this thing has sort of arrived on my abdomen. Some days it’s bigger than others, but it’s getting kind of hard to ignore. I’m not real keen on waistbands anymore, and leaving the house will be interesting when I’m used to my “whatever” lounge wear and letting it all hang out. I’ve semi prepared with a Belly band, a couple of loose frocks, a couple of maternity t shirts. Welcome, Mr Bump.

I know I’m pregnant, right, I get that, but I’m not so comfortable with Mr Bump’s presence. It’s an in between presence, easy enough to hide in the right outfit, but getting less so. I think if he was a serious BUMP we could be better friends. A HELLO YOU’RE PREGNANT I’M YOUR BUMP, bump. But this in between pretender, well I just don’t know if I like him. He won’t be sucked in. He won’t conform to my ideas. He still fits in my normal jeans, but a little more snugly than before. And Godzilla boobs and the flying saucer nipples aren’t making me feel any more predisposed to loving my new look. I really didn’t think through how I would feel about the physical changes during pregnancy. And I really need to get out and buy some new bras.

I thought that last year, on March 20, our first wedding anniversary, we had reached a point that anniversaries could only get better. We arrived in Wollombi where we got married, to stay at my brother’s farm, sensibly choosing this over the $600 a weekend guest house down the road where we spent the wedding night. And at the farm, we arrived to a rat and mouse infestation. The next six hours or so were spent cleaning up rat poo off EVERYTHING, chasing the little bastards down the hall, and putting on ACDC at full volume to see if we could scare them off. We sat down with champagne and a movie in the evening, to find a mouse leaping out of the air conditioning unit, onto the globe of the world, down the cd cabinet, and then proceeding to start a conga line with his buddies down the hall. It was not romantic. The next day, to seal the deal, we went to three produce stores in town and cleaned them out of rat bait. Nice.

This year, on our second anniversary, I am not only pregnant, but I am pregnant, getting a bump, banned from any kind of good loving, unable to drink (i’ll sneak half a glass), unable to eat most of our favourite cheeses, diabetic and stuck in the house. Oh, and hub-in-boots has FOOTBALL TRAINING. Woo hoo. Party on, you crazy newlyweds. This marriage celebration just gets better and better! I have managed to order a gourmet meal service to deliver us a nice dinner at home, at least. And an interesting little present for hub-in-boots. But seriously. The romantic evening for two? Rose petals: tick. Candlelight: tick. Bubble bath: nope. Bottle of wine? Nope. Sex? Mr Obstetrician has made it pretty clear where we stand on that. It’s not quite going to be party town around here. I swear to God our third anniversary someone is minding Gumby, and we’re booking Caper’s Guesthouse for the weekend. No bumps, no rats, no football training.

The good thing, I suppose, to come out of bedrest, is we’ve probably had a baby free dress rehearsal for being new parents. I’ve struggled to get enough sleep and have been pretty useless around the house, I’ve been stressed out by the physical complications, and we’ve had to some how muddle through, let the housework standards slide a bit, eat three square meals a day, get the washing done, and cope. Hub-in-boots has had to juggle full time work, more than full time football, and nursemaid, and somehow keep his head on. We’ve had to cope with less money. All of these changes would be happening, but would be even more difficult with a little person screaming in the corner, so at least we’ve made some significant adjustments now. And still we are (mostly) very happy to see each other at the end of the day. And able to make each other laugh. An anniversary present, of a sort.

The downtime has allowed me to reconnect with a lot of people in my life, friends and family that perhaps got lost in the melee of trying to adapt to married life at 38 and fitting in full time jobs, two people worth of events and busy making stuff. I tended to get pretty isolated, especially in football season when hub-in-boots is off the social radar. So bed rest has been kind to me in that sense, and in the sense of finding comfort in a slower life; changes that may have been a rude shock if I’d hit it running with a baby in tow.

What I am also happy about, and thankful for, (apart from how wonderful hub-in-boots has been throughout this whole ridiculously complicated affair, and the reconnections) is that in ten weeks of bedrest I’ve ended up half a kilo under my pre pregnancy weight to date, despite the slowly growing presence of Mr Bump.  And I’m 18 weeks tomorrow. I think this is a pretty good outcome, and to me says, regardless of the Gestational Diabetes tag, I am doing ok with my eating. The bed rest would be worlds worse if I was also putting on lots of weight. I’ve worked too bloody hard to get it down over a number of years to lose all my progress now. So far my blood glucose has almost always within the 4 to 7 mmol guidelines for two hours after meals (and under 5 fasting), but at 18 weeks it’s still pretty early to have GD, so they think it will get worse as the pregnancy goes on and progress to insulin. It’s probably a matter of when, not if, but in the meantime I’ll work on it and if I can get some movement in at last that will help a great deal.

And yet visitors STILL show up with CAKES!!!!!!

AGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! I’m going to have to establish a cake-ty deposit box at the front door so the cakes get taken home again.

In the last week or so, I think I’ve felt Gumby move, twice. It doesn’t really feel like movement, and it always happens when I am on my side, in bed, in that in between drifting off to sleep phase. (Last time they checked I had an anterior placenta, which makes the movement harder to sense). And then it wakes me. It feels like a butterfly trapped in a jar, bashing on the sides, bouncing from one direction then another, but bashing from a butterfly is kind of light. It’s an odd feeling.  So far, I’m not quite sure if I am dreaming or not. I can’t wait til he absolutely belts me from the inside. Then I might be able to have dreams about boxercise at least.

I’m eating well, but I was about 9kg overweight to start with, so I’m aiming for 20 weeks with excellent nutrition for Gumby and no weight gain. Mr Bump and I are having a mexican standoff. I’m going to try and pretend he’s not there for a while longer.  And no, there will be no Mr Bump photos. Not yet, anyway.

Happy almost anniversary, hub-in-boots.

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