The Weekend That Got Medieval on my Ass
I haven't been a fan of warm weather since I was a teenager. Then I went to college in Ohio where summer is mild. I came back home for a while, then spent a handful of years in Arkansas, which drove me inside like a vampire. I don't like to be hot, and spending time in excessively warm environments only makes me grumpy.
So when Hubby said he had a meeting and there was a BBQ following at a friends workshop in the old Lemp brewery my first reaction was to tell him to have a good time and stay home. I'm 3-1/2 months pregnant, my tolerance for Anything right now is next to nil, much less something I know will make me more uncomfortable. He said he really wanted to go, really wanted to get to know these folks, and I get that. This is a group of his "own" friends, not folks that associate with him because of me. So I indulged him, prepared for the worst and went.
Now before I got pregnant, I was already a type 2 diabetic. Getting pregnant exacerbated this condition because the placenta holds on to sugar to nourish baby. So what used to be managed by 3 pills a day must now be managed by 8 tests a day and 6+ shots of 2 different insulins a day. It also means following a pretty regimented eating plan to space out my carb aka sugar intake throughout the day. Knowing my specific needs, I prepared by making ambrosia salad.
We arrived about quarter to 2 for a 2pm meeting. A 2pm meeting that didn't start until closer to 4. By 5, I was starving. At 5:30 I check my blood sugar - ah crap, getting too low, and I didn't notice the danger signs - sweating - because it was so damn hot. Hubby notices I'm in distress and gets me some ambrosia which I devour. We stayed to eat, but not much longer, because it's called a blood sugar "crash" for a reason.
Flash forward to Sunday. We hit Bob Evans for breakfast. I check my sugar when we sit down - perfect, low, but not dangerously so. We order and wait. And wait. And wait some more. By the time the food arrives I'm sick. I eat a bowl of grits and take my other food home.
We proceed to our errands and afternoon house hunting. The first house we go to is nice, but it's built on a hill. Hubby goes to check out the backyard. I say I'll wait. He says to come on out so we can see about a fence for the dogs. I step down onto the mat outside the door - and the next thing I know I'm looking up at the world and I'm in pain. Apparently there were 2 mats stacked on each other, and there was just enough moisture between them to make me into a slapstick comedienne. Oh yea wait - I'm 3-1/2 months into a high risk pregnancy and I just FELL. We go back in, trade information with the agent while I stand there bleeding, and then proceed to the nearby Walgreens for my angry and freaked out Hubby to bandage up my scrapes.
We took a few minutes to see if I was okay and figure out whether we would continue or go home. I felt ok, so we kept up the search - only to see me leave my purse on the counter of the last house we looked at. Luckily it was owned by a retired military person and an officer for the STLPD so my belongings were unmolested.
At that point I was done. There's only so much a person can take before it becomes clear they shouldn't have left the house.
So when Hubby said he had a meeting and there was a BBQ following at a friends workshop in the old Lemp brewery my first reaction was to tell him to have a good time and stay home. I'm 3-1/2 months pregnant, my tolerance for Anything right now is next to nil, much less something I know will make me more uncomfortable. He said he really wanted to go, really wanted to get to know these folks, and I get that. This is a group of his "own" friends, not folks that associate with him because of me. So I indulged him, prepared for the worst and went.
Now before I got pregnant, I was already a type 2 diabetic. Getting pregnant exacerbated this condition because the placenta holds on to sugar to nourish baby. So what used to be managed by 3 pills a day must now be managed by 8 tests a day and 6+ shots of 2 different insulins a day. It also means following a pretty regimented eating plan to space out my carb aka sugar intake throughout the day. Knowing my specific needs, I prepared by making ambrosia salad.
We arrived about quarter to 2 for a 2pm meeting. A 2pm meeting that didn't start until closer to 4. By 5, I was starving. At 5:30 I check my blood sugar - ah crap, getting too low, and I didn't notice the danger signs - sweating - because it was so damn hot. Hubby notices I'm in distress and gets me some ambrosia which I devour. We stayed to eat, but not much longer, because it's called a blood sugar "crash" for a reason.
Flash forward to Sunday. We hit Bob Evans for breakfast. I check my sugar when we sit down - perfect, low, but not dangerously so. We order and wait. And wait. And wait some more. By the time the food arrives I'm sick. I eat a bowl of grits and take my other food home.
We proceed to our errands and afternoon house hunting. The first house we go to is nice, but it's built on a hill. Hubby goes to check out the backyard. I say I'll wait. He says to come on out so we can see about a fence for the dogs. I step down onto the mat outside the door - and the next thing I know I'm looking up at the world and I'm in pain. Apparently there were 2 mats stacked on each other, and there was just enough moisture between them to make me into a slapstick comedienne. Oh yea wait - I'm 3-1/2 months into a high risk pregnancy and I just FELL. We go back in, trade information with the agent while I stand there bleeding, and then proceed to the nearby Walgreens for my angry and freaked out Hubby to bandage up my scrapes.
We took a few minutes to see if I was okay and figure out whether we would continue or go home. I felt ok, so we kept up the search - only to see me leave my purse on the counter of the last house we looked at. Luckily it was owned by a retired military person and an officer for the STLPD so my belongings were unmolested.
At that point I was done. There's only so much a person can take before it becomes clear they shouldn't have left the house.