I searched this morning in vain for a food tracker app, just a simple way of keeping track of what I’m eating.  I downloaded 2 or 3 but got frustrated when, upon attempting to set them up, the app wouldn’t let me past the question “Gaining or Losing”. There was no “Neither” or “Other” box so I just bailed. I just want an organized place of keeping tabs on the things I’m putting in my body.  Not some annoying virtual diet coach with notifications popping up on my phone, reminding me to “step on the scale!”

I weigh 154 pounds. That’s 20 pounds over my weight back in May when I started the IVF prep dance of estrogen and progesterone shots.  At the ER last week, I weighed 158 pounds, which they announced (loudly, I might add) as 72 kilograms and it took 4 of us to google on our IPhones what that translated to in American.

(Side note: Remember in the 1970’s when Jimmy Carter decided we would all go Canadian and elementary schools everywhere began testing children on the metric system? Yeah. I do. It never stuck. To this day, when I travel abroad, I am baffled that there is not a direct correlative temperature measurement from celcius to farenheit.  My British friends say, ‘oh 30 Celcius is somewhere around 75 degrees Fahrenheit.’ I don’t get it. Isn’t math supposed to be exact? It kind of freaks me out when I am up against the grey edges of something I thought was certain, as if I’ve fallen into a dark Wonderland, like in the 2^nd book where Alice falls backwards through the mirror into a nightmare – maybe I’m mis-remembering that book, but that was my takeaway)

So, after figuring out that 72 kg was about 20 pounds, my well-meaning and kind mother, in a benign attempt at small talk and I’m sure in an attempt to connect, said out loud “I gained a total of 25 pounds with you.”  It was all I could do to not punch her.

My glucose test came back high yesterday.  The nurse called me at 7am. Nobody calls me at 7am, so I picked up knowing that whomever was disrupting my sleep, it was most likely important. She said, “Um, Mrs. Wood, your glucose test level came back at 134. Anything over 130 is considered in the range of needing to re-test.  It is just over 130, but still, we’d like you to come in for another test.”  I know the test. It’s 3 and a half hours where I drink the sweet sticky orange or red Gatorade looking stuff, wait an hour, they draw blood. Then do it all over again 3 times.  This is to determine whether or not I have Gestational Diabetes. Which, of course, now, I am convinced I do, as I look back over my culinary choices over the last 6 months and berate myself for the cupcakes, the soda, the cheeseburgers.  I clearly let myself go and it is clearly my fault that my son will be born overweight with diabetes and I’ll have developed Type 2 Diabetes and will spend my life at the mercy of insulin shots and diet-monitoring.  I know this because I googled it. I went directly to Web MD and got myself all the factual information I needed to go into a full out panic.  I read the pre-requisites for Gestational Diabetes:

Mother is obese or overweight  – and I thought, no matter that, since I got sober, I have gone between 128 and 130-ish and have been a runner and done Bikram Yoga consistently. Well, except for this past year of nonstop touring (and tour-eating) from Nashville to London and driving back and forth from Nashville to Chatanooga to see our Fertility Doctor.  It’s been exhausting. I’ve slacked on exercise for lack of time and I’ve fallen back into small amounts of “sad-eating” (coca cola’s, bread and cheese) when I’m lonely or scared or just restless, irritable and discontent. Which is my usual state of being.  It’s my fault. My kid’s gonna die and it will be my fault.

Family history of diabetes or obesity.  Aunt Betty. My cousin. That one we only saw once at a family reunion back in 1982.  My youngest brother and I have fluctuated between normal sized and slightly soft while my other brother and my sister are always thin and small. My mother is bird size. My father at 80 has six pack abs from competitive tennis and the first thing out of his mouth when he sees you is a comment on how fit you look (or he doesn’t say anything at all and that says volumes). Not to say my parents have been at all Joan Crawford-esque in their obsession with weight.  But it could have had some impact, maybe, all the times when it was pointed out in bathing suit photos who was chubby and who wasn’t.  I did enjoy a good run of bulimia in college.  I was skinny then. I couldn’t see it then. I do now. Man, we are all so hard on ourselves. #CadillacProblems

Mother is over 35.  Bingo. There it is. The nail in the coffin. It’s my fault. I’m 49 and I did this. With the cupcakes and my age. The pride of it all. My kid’s gonna be a sea monster.

I met a woman who is a more-famous-than-I-am-singer-songwriter this summer at a music camp. I’ll call her T.  We were both teaching. She was strolling her 18 month old daughter through the campus and I decided, since I was in the extremely early stages of being pregnant, like a few weeks and nervous about how this would all work out, touring, art, and baby and it didn’t hurt that I love her music and think she dresses really cool, that she should be my new bestie.  So I followed her on her walks, asking a bazillion questions and she was kind and patient and very forthcoming and I think at least for that week we were tight.  She told me she had Gestational Diabetes during her pregnancy and she is a lot younger than I am now.  She survived. Her daughter is healthy. So, with monitoring, it can be a NBD situation.  But of course, I’m nervous and self-deprecating and so I am going to cut back on sugar and fat and carbs and try to keep track of every bite and swig that goes into my mouth.  No more soda. I didn’t drink it for years and then I got sober and realized that I had a sweet tooth and a Coke on ice was my drink of choice when around others cupping lovely full glasses of red wine.  I stopped again once the cravings for wine stopped but started up again during my first trimester as I was constantly nauseous and remembered that my mother allowed me to drink Coke or Ginger Ale anytime I had an upset stomach.  So now, with a few days until I have to endure the marathon glucose test, I’m hoping to reverse the last 6 months of irresponsible diet choices.

The problem, though, is Texas.  I’m in Texas. Which may be my favorite eating state besides Louisiana.  I love a good breakfast taco, spicy chorizo with eggs and potatoes slathered with cheddar cheese.  I love Enchiladas Suizas – chicken enchiladas in a green creamy cheese sauce.  It’s going to be a hard weekend.  Maybe I’ll just hold the cheese. Maybe.

p.s. I love my mom and dad. Just saying…

Update: I ate 2 breakfast tacos this morning. They were delicious. I’m not gonna worry too much about it. And thank you Texas for Topo Chico. I can do that instead of coke.