Week Twenty.

Hello there, little nugget,

We're halfway there! Huzzah! Also, aaaaah!

I appreciate your daily reminders that you're in there: stretching, possibly punching and kicking, and probably high fiving your umbilical cord from time to time. "Yeah! We're awesome! Let's do this! Woooooo!", you're saying with language you haven't yet learned.

Keep it up, you.

You and I measured just as we were supposed to at our last OB visit, and my tummy/your temporary apartment is in the tail-end of that "is she or isn't she" phase of roundess, likely to tip over to "oh, she's definitely knocked up" territory any day now. I'm doing my best to drink more water than what seems possible, take my vitamins on time every day (the alarm on my iPhone that plays the Beastie Boys' Body Movin' at precisely 9:00 pm every night helps me immensely with that, even though that song choice would be more appropriate for a workout reminder, but whatevs), and eat a variety of stuff that most people agree is good for both of us.

But also, I have a feeling you're going to love Mexican food just as much as I do, since I've been feeding you a lot of it.

So many things are on your parents' To Do list before you get here - like, "buy and assemble all the furniture", and "look into taking baby/birth/parenting/whatever-you're-supposed-to-do classes", and the ever-popular "what the heck are we going to name you". I hope you like your room, and your clothes, and your toys, and all of the books we can't wait to read to you. I really hope you like us, too.

I can't wait for you to meet your dad, and I'm curious what you'll think of his massive lumberjack beard. I wonder if you'll have his beautiful blue eyes and blond hair, and if you'll be just as funny and goofy as he can be. I'm looking forward to watching the two of you bond over love of Pixar movies, silly voices, and macaroni and cheese.

Soon you'll get to meet your uncles and aunts, your grandparents, and everyone else who is going to fall madly in love with you, and it will be glorious.

Diabetes has thrown me a couple of curveballs lately, but I hope you haven't noticed. It was right after I had brushed my teeth that Thom Yorke buzzed to tell me I was below 55 mg/dL. I didn't want to believe him; what I wanted to do was sleep. If years are days, my sensor was well past drinking age, so I took the warning with a grain of salt and made a compromise with myself: if I'm under 80, I'll treat. If I'm not, and he's lying again, I'm doing a temp basal and laying down. The meter then blinked with a reading of 45.

I didn't even feel that one coming, little nugget, but I think you might have: you had been practicing your roundhouse kicks about 15 minutes before that. Was it related? Are you a built-in CGM? Do you have wifi and a galley kitchen in there?

After treating that low with two glucose tabs and a teeny (really!) bowl of Cracklin' Oat Bran, I hit the hay. From what I can remember after that, I woke up in a fog around 3:00am and saw something like 241 on the Dexcom receiver, and made the half-awake decision to bolus four units. Not based on a finger stick, not based on my actual correction ratio, and not based on CGM data that was reliable. (See also: what the heck was I think- oh right, I was still half asleep.) A few hours later I woke up at 114, so it must have been what I/we needed - thanks for whatever wizardry you helped pull, there.

I hope you'll believe me that diabetes is my burden, and that you won't let what's happening with me now cause you to believe anything other than you are absolutely worth all of it. You are. All of it.

You're growing, and you're wonderful, and I can't wait to meet you in four and a half months. (Not that anyone's counting.)

Looooooove yoooooou.

-Your Mom (and not in a comeback-to-a-joke sort of way)