Y’all, I fold.  I got nothing of interest of any kind to share, unless you think my ramblings about late pregnancy are interesting.  I’m serious- that’s all that’s going on up in this noggin.  All pregnancy, all the time.

There’s the food part of this particular late pregnancy: Since I cannot for the LIFE OF ME pass that fucking glucose test, my midwife has me monitoring my blood sugar as if I were to have an official gestational diabetes diagnosis (which I don’t, and thank goodness, because that would have dropped me square into “high-risk” territory, and no midwife-assisted birth for me.  AND LET ME TELL YOU, going to a random local OB at 34 weeks pregnant with a GD diagnosis and trying to get some care is some wide-awake-shrieking nightmare stuff).  Anyhoo- I monitor, and my blood sugar is completely controlled by diet, the heart of which is that I have eliminated fruit.  I’ve never been a soda/candy/whatever person (with the notable exception of ice cream, which I could eat by the gallon, I am not even kidding you one bit), but I do love me some fresh fruit of any type, so this current restriction to a single serving of fruit a day (and a low sugar fruit at that) is making me BATTY.  Add to that the current explosion of all types of delicious fruit all over Southern California, and well.  I AM PISSED.  There are cherries and strawberries and watermelons and pineapples and mangoes, and I cannot eat any of it.  There are only three more weeks of this torture though, and I can almost guarantee that once this baby comes I will be subsisting solely on fruit salad and really expensive vanilla ice cream.

There’s the baby part of it: Ok, so I didn’t know, although I suppose if I’d thought about it for a second, I could have figured it out, but as the baby gets cramped into tighter and tighter quarters, all those movements?  They start to HURT.  I can’t tell if the baby is doing some sort of Michael Flatley Irish dance or if he’s more of a booty-shaking hip hop artist, but some body part is continually pressing hard against my… I don’t know, my EVERYTHING, and it’s not all angels singing and miracle of life as it is really uncomfortable (for the record, I use “he” here because that is how English works, not because we know what flavor of baby we are having).

There’s also the swelling part of this pregnancy: I thought I was SO LUCKY- every prenatal visit I’ve had prior to 36 weeks the midwife would note with amazement my still shapely ankles, and I would internally gloat over the relative superiority of my non-swelling genetics.  Until last week, that is, when I finally had to pry my wedding rings off my fingers and loop them onto a chain around my neck.  My feet are fat and puffy, and my toes look like delectable cocktail weenies.  It’s certainly not THAT BAD, but as the weather gets warmer and the straps of my flip-flops start to leave unattractive marks across my feet, it’s just one more thing to add to my litany of complaints.

Actually, my litany is somewhat short, since that’s about the extent of it.  Otherwise, I think we’re as ready as first time parents can me- there’s booty coverings, bedding, and boobs.  There’s also a phalanx of grandparents arriving within days of my due date, so any last-minute emergencies can hopefully be addressed by them, since I doubt every store in the greater Long Beach area is going to close up shop just because I’m having a baby.

In other news- we had a lovely if abbreviated Memorial Day weekend- J worked a full day on Saturday, but we managed to salvage Monday with a long drive up the coast to see how the other half lives (all those water views!), and we treated ourselves to a heavily marbled Waygu streak for dinner, cooked and consumed in the great out-of-doors.

Entertainment-wise, we are enjoying the SHIT out of Damages, season 2, and I hope they keep making them, because Glenn Close is masterfully evil.  Hope you all had a lovely and relaxing long weekend (if you were so lucky).