Bottoms Up

I’m seeing orange.

If you have ever college chugged the “orange” flavoured sunny d flat pop crap for your unborn baby, please stand up. If you can. If you’re not keeled over retching just thinking about it. Our sacrifices for our children begin before they are even born. Quite frankly, it’s bullshit, but being neurotic and controlling and a bit of a hypochondriac ensures my inability to NOT do what’s best for this little alien child.

Gestational diabetes, or “G-betes” is not a joke. It can cause a lot of complications for mother and child, including the quick growth of the baby in the womb, and to prevent widespread terror of the va-jay-jay, a c-section is often required. F THAT.

However, the screening for gestational diabetes IS a joke, and one of the few tests the lab techs actually enjoy administering. It legit brightens their day when they get to play bartender (or lemonade stand attendant).

My doctor even felt a sort of satisfaction when he broke the news that the results of my first test were 0.1 above the cut off for not having diabetes. Because they can’t say for sure that I don’t have G-betes, I have to do another test. With a little extra sugar and an extra 2 hours of my time. . .

This is when I was called in for another blood test and BABY BRAIN deemed me useless again; I completely forgot about this post until now.

So, if you’re pregnant and the dark cloud of g-betes testing is upon you, I understand and I empathetize with your bitching and complaining. We torture ourselves for fun around here. Dig it!

Bottoms up, ladies!