Oh, twenty-six weeks. That's how pregnant I am as of tomorrow. The beginning of the third trimester is frighteningly within reach, and I'm at the point now where people who don't know me all that well (i.e., customers, neighbors I don't talk to, strangers on the street handing out Jesus pamphlets) feel a little too comfortable greeting me with, "Wow! Congratulations! When are you due?" It's pretty obvious at this point that I'm packing a kid and not some huge lunch that consisted mostly of bratwurst and beer. I have four pairs of pants that fit me and about six shirts. I have a mysterious brown line between my belly button and bathing suit area. I have strange looking boobs; I have aching bones and stretched out muscles that are working overtime to accomodate my new, heavy belly.

I had a minor scare involving my gestational diabetes screening, which the doctor's office performed last week. My number came back just over the threshold, and I had to take the three hour test to see if I had the disease or not. Realistically, being diagnosed with gestational diabetes wouldn't have been THAT big of a deal- but man was I upset. I just about lost it. God forbid I have to watch my diet and prick my finger every once in a while to check my glucose levels. However, my three hour test came back good, much to my great relief, so I'm in the clear. The whole ordeal, though, really woke me up on a few levels. I've been worried sick about BPA in my canned food, toxins in my drinking water, birth defects, developmental disorders, etc, and I feel like the whole gestational diabetes thing was basically a way of telling me, "Listen, if you want something to worry about, I'll GIVE you something to worry about." So now I'm just going to do my best to relax and have a good, healthy pregnancy (at least remainder thereof) and not fret too much about things that are mostly out of my control. Also, I bought some whole wheat bread and decided to watch my carbs and sugars anyway, just for the hell of it. See how responsible I am? I'm pretty responsible.

We're slowly getting things in order for Baby Boy's arrival. I have an appointment with a pediatrician in a few weeks. Apparently, I'm supposed to "interview" this guy. My interview is going to consist of one main question: Are you a doctor? I ordered that book, "What To Expect The First Year," and read a few parts, mostly the parts about bringing baby home, how to breastfeed (oh dear, I have a bad feeling about that), and also the part about choosing a doctor. Apparently, interviewing pediatricians is supposed to this huge long process, but I want nothing of it. I want to meet the guy, make sure I don't get the creeps from him, verify that he is truly a doctor (see question from earlier in this paragraph), and then basically find out when he's supposed to see the baby. That's it- should take five minutes, top. So much of this baby stuff is turned into a long and drawn out endeavor, and it's draining to think about. For the most part, I feel like I'm going to be doing a lot of winging it. I've even decided to skip the birthing class in favor of spending those eight hours on a Saturday doing something more enjoyable, such as logging in some quality couch time. I have a feeling that taking the birthing class would cause more anxiety for me than it would alleviate. Thus, I'm just going to skip it and keep my fingers crossed that everything goes okay despite my complete ignorance of the whole baby-birthing process.

Plus, I asked my doctor if she thought it was necessary, and she said, "Not really. You can just watch some of those shows on TLC if you want." So, there you go. My ever-so-thorough and compassionate and caring doctor seems to think it's a waste of a Saturday, too.

Anyway, there you have it.