The fact that people can grow other people is still kind of mind boggling to me, even though I’ve now been through it twice. Especially considering all of the unbelievable weirdness your body can get up to at the BEST of times, the fact that other human beings get grown at all is pretty astonishing.

In the past few weeks, I have, unfortunately fallen victim to bodily weirdness in the form of Gestational Diabetes.

Admittedly, I should have had the test WAY earlier. But some things simply can’t be helped, so 3 weeks ago I spent a rather relaxing 2 hours sitting and reading in the antenatal waiting room after having necked a foul concoction meant to test my glucose tolerance. This waiting room is always interesting due to the rather distinct cross section of the general public that pass through it and the often colorful nature of their personalities/ odours/ language. But fortunately for me, I had my Kindle with me and spent a rather pleasant time sitting in a comfortable chair and reading without being pestered for juice by someone under 3 feet tall.

I have to admit that I’d nearly forgotten about the test when I was phoned a week later and ordered to report to the midwife who deals with diabetic patients. After the call, I was imagining weeks of needles (which I hate) administered by The Rock Star (who I trust, but would still just assume that he not have to take on the role of Mr. Stabby.) and a diet completely free of anything that might taste remotely like food.

Luckily, I discovered when I went in for my consultation with the cheerful specialist midwife that thinking on how to treat Gestational Diabetes has changed fairly significantly in the past few years. Insulin is a fairly drastic measure, and only used when diet alone or diet plus Metaformin doesn’t do any good. Thankfully, my numbers were on the low side of high, so diet alone seems to be doing the trick. Even my assumptions about what I’m allowed to eat weren’t terribly accurate; the menu is much more varied than I imagined. It’s rather like being on the Atkins diet where carbs and sweets are a big no-no. So obviously not difficult AT ALL at a time of year when supermarket shelves are CRAMMED FULL OF DAMNED CHOCOLATE EGGS.

One of several side effects that has rather put a spanner in the works is the growth of the baby, which tends to accelerate due to higher blood sugar. At the moment, the Squid is measuring EXACTLY where she should be, but sadly, GD pregnancies are never allowed to go to full term for fear of the size of the baby. However, my sugars have been just fine since adjusting my diet and there’s no indication that the Squid is turning into some kind of behemoth in there.

So, the chances of my lovely natural birth are getting more and more remote as I was informed yesterday that they’d let me go til between 38 and 39 weeks, which is just 2 and a half weeks from now, before a) a limited induction or b) another c-section. To this, I say MEH. The consulting physician, while coolly friendly, did not seem like the type that I could meekly ask, “erm….could I not just be MONITORED, please? If the baby is the right size? To, you know, AVOID MAJOR ABDOMINAL SURGERY?” I have yet another appointment next week where my fate shall be well and truly decided, so perhaps by then, I can pluck up my courage to at least ask the question.

But, my guess is in that 2 and a half weeks, the Squid will be sprung from the joint one way or another.

Round 2, about to commence.

Not being able to vote since my arrival in Great Britain 10 years ago has always been a bit of a burr in my metaphorical gusset. Raised in the “Rock the Vote” generation in the US, not being able to have a say in who my elected officials are has made me uncomfortable despite my extreme apathy toward British politics where every party seems to have the same policies while at the same time accusing the ruling party of hypocrisy/ criminal activity/ sexual deviance/ etc. In any system where you are paying a very large amount of seemingly never-ending taxes, it’s annoying not to be able to pick who’s taxing you. (Up until the last year or so, citizenship was not even an option as the US frowns upon it’s citizens hitching their wagons to the fortunes of Johnny Foreigner even if we DO have a “special relationship”.)

A few years ago, I mentioned our day out at Westminster Palace care of our MP, Mr. John Bercow, who has since recently been elected as Speaker of the House of Commons. In other words, he’s the guy in the black robe in the middle of the room who a) recognizes MP’s during sessions of Parliament when they want to speak and b) tells them to knock it off when the proceedings reach a “your momma” state of debate.

As it happens, we’ve met The Right Honourable Speaker on three separate occasions. I was not present for the first instance when he was first campaigning, showed up at the Rock Star’s family home and immediately needed to use the toilet. For like, half an hour. After his marathon comfort break, he spent a fair amount of time connecting with the Rock Star’s family, asking about their business, governmental concerns, etc. So in depth did his interest appear to be that it lead my mother in law to wonder aloud, “He’s a slick bugger. I wonder what he’s up to?”

The second meeting was during a sponsored tour of Westminster Palace several years later, when, to our surprise, he remembered exactly who The Rock Star’s family was, where they lived and what they did. (Possibly due to latent gratitude from being allowed to spend half an hour in their crapper.) His star had risen a bit in Parliament by then and you’d occasionally see his name crop up in newspapers having to do with various votes and committees. Again, my mother in law mused that he was a politician who probably had lofty aspirations and was curious to know what he was working towards.

Before visiting a session of the Commons a few years after THAT, I decided to have a quick look at what John Bercow, MP was really all about and after a bit of internet searching, found the Parliamentary voting records. Although a member of the Tory Party, Bercow almost consistently voted with the Labour government throughout his stint as Buckinghamshire’s Member of Parliament. (This is why you need to check up on your elected officials, folks! Just because you vote in a member of one party or another, it doesn’t necessarily mean you’re going to get the policies that you’d expect. While, as a liberal, /I/ certainly have no trouble with his voting record, I can imagine that a staunch Tory supporter might get their conservative hackles up a bit) We enjoyed a rather nice afternoon tea with him in the beautiful Pugin Tearoom at Westminister Palace afterwards and were both stuck at his personability as well as his uncanny ability to answer a question in a way that 5 minutes later, you suddenly went, “Holy hell. He didn’t answer my question at all. How did I MISS that?” In other words, the perfect politician. So, when he was finally elected speaker, it didn’t come as a huge surprise. My mother in law proved to be right. He WAS working towards something.

Just the other day, the Rock Star (as the only voter in the house) received a letter that informed us that due to some strange Parlimentary jiggery pokery, because our MP is in fact the Speaker and at General Elections, the Speaker’s seat remains unchallenged, voters of Buckinghamshire would not be given a vote. In an American analogy, this would be like residents of the State of California being denied the opportunity to vote in a Presidential election due to the fact that Nancy Pelosi is the Speaker of Senate. (Of course, Buckinghamshire is far less populated, less prone to earthquakes and has a FAR lower paparazzi to resident ratio.)

Although the politics of Great Britain don’t really warrant much attention on the other side of the pond, I think perhaps a little bit of the MP Expense scandal might have made the papers. (i.e. Members of Parliament using an astonishing amount of taxpayer cash for important and critical things like REALLY NICE NEW WALLPAPER for their offices.) Unfortunately, Mr. Bercow was not immune to this and in a “gosh, isn’t my face red!” kind of moment, was revealed to have spent £45,000 pounds of other people’s money on refurbishing his London grace-and-favor flat. Not to mention £13,000 for 3 months “entertainment” expenses. (Apparently, politicians have a different definition of “fun” than the res of us. Me, I would be happy with a bargain bucket from KFC, but I suppose if you’re inviting London nobs to tea, something a little more upmarket is required.) Needless to say this brand of political fuckery didn’t sit particularly well with his constituency here in Buckinghamshire and they would rather relish the chance to oust him, but due to a fun procedural loophole, not only do voters not get to do THAT, but they are also robbed of the chance to have a say in selection of this country’s next government.

Lucky for me that I’m taxed without representation anyway.

This afternoon, I’ve been looking back through my blog archives for late 2006 and early 2007 when I was pregnant with The Prawn, trying to draw some inspiration from the fact that, yes, pregnancy does, at some point END.

Due to my body’s unfortunately tendency toward miscarriage, I have pretty much been pregnant for all save two months since last January. This has lead me to an enormous sympathy for elephants. (22 months is a long time, ladies.) So, 10 months and counting since I could, in all good conscience, refer to myself in the singular. Oy.

The first mention of any serious complaint in my pregnancy with the Prawn came in February, about a month away from her due date. I suppose it should have come as no surprise that 3 years on, the niggly bits might begin to start a bit earlier. As I included in my Facebook status the other day, I’ve already come to the point where when I drop something that I need on the floor, I tend to take it rather personally. The fact that the Prawn does not know any of the most popular dirty words is a minor miracle. (To be honest, she learned the S-word after The Rock Star dropped a running hard drive on the floor once, but he managed to convince her that “sugar” is a much better word. She now says it exclusively in times of stress.)

Of course, I must add the traditional “how grateful I am for this pregnancy” disclaimer at this point. Other than our early roller coaster ride, the rest has been pretty much a piece of cake up until now. That I can bring myself to complain at all is testament to a ferocious head cold, which, on top of other discomforts has reduced me to being a big whiny girl about the whole thing. (Diminished lung capacity will do that to you. So will heartburn so bad that it’s started eating the back of your tongue.)

The serious waddle is about 3 weeks old at this point. Pain in places I wasn’t aware that I had ligaments started last week. And new for this week, just in time for the head cold, sneezing and hoping I don’t wet myself! Awesome. Of course, I am, in fact, a limber and adept frolicking flower fairy in comparison to my unfortunate sister-in-law, Trumpet, who has spent most of her pregnancy on the couch, wedged into positions that could charitably be called “not as uncomfortable as sitting on a rusty spike” with complex arrangements of pillows and hot water bottles.

Last week, I dutifully made my way to a midwife appointment for the usual pokings and proddings. When it came time to listen in to the heartbeat, the midwife, as is often the case, had to pursue the Squid around her uterine squat in order to get a good reading. When she finally DID manage to get a handle on the little bugger, she said, “Ah.”

“Ah?” I said.

“I was wondering why I couldn’t find the heartbeat where I was expecting it. The baby’s breech at the moment!”

This was not exactly news that I wanted to jump up and down about, even assuming that I was CAPABLE of jumping up and down any more.

People make a pretty big deal about the METHOD in which babies come into the world. I would certainly be the first to admit that this is a VERY big deal to a lot of women and with seemingly unnecessary c-sections on the rise, (more down OBGYNS who are anxious to get back to the golf course rather than a SUDDEN INABILITY OF WOMEN TO DELIVER BABIES NATURALLY. Seriously, I don’t for a minute believe that our pelvises have been evolutionarily sabotaged in the last 30 years.) it’s even MORE of a thing; creating feelings of weakness and guilt for women who are rushed into surgery. It’s taken me a good few years to process the ordeal of the Prawn’s birth but after a few chats with a very helpful hospital midwife, had begun to hope to take the natural route this time around.

However, if the Squid remains resolutely head up, in four weeks, I’ll be scheduled in for an elective c-section 2 weeks after that whether I like it or not.

There are several things wrong with this.

a) GETTING CUT OPEN AGAIN WHILE AWAKE. I can not over-emphasize how fucked up this is. This is something that happens in horror films. (Luckily, at no time during the Prawn’s birth did any of the surgeons gloatingly attempt to show me my lower intestine or severed foot.)

b) 6 weeks is in no way enough time for me to pick enough underpants up off the bedroom floor to fit in a moses basket. Also, there’s a not insignificant mildew problem that needs some serious attention before we end up with sentient fungus.

c) Do you have any idea where our bottle sterilizer went? Cause I don’t. Also, the crib?

d) DID I MENTION GETTING CUT OPEN WHILE AWAKE?

Do I wish for an end to c-sections? Of course not. They undoubtedly give a fighting chance to mothers and babies that under other circumstances, would not have been so lucky. But I can’t tell you how much I don’t want another one.

So I will be spending the next  4 weeks trying desperately to get the Squid interested in the upside down lifestyle. One website recommended putting headphones down your pants and trying to “coax” the baby down with Mozart. (It occurs to me that moving the headphones up to the top of the belly and replacing Mozart with Wu Tang Clan might be more effective.) However, I think I’ll stick to bouncing on our newly ordered exercise ball, spending some time on my hands and knees and maybe joining the Prawn in the enthusiastic dance routine she’s developed to “Single Ladies”.

Or maybe I should just get on with picking up those underpants.