I have gestational diabetes (pronounced diabeeeeetus).

And a shortened cervix.

And threatened preterm labor.

And I am on modified bed rest.

And, unfortunately, I was involved in a car accident yesterday, which means that I also have a beautiful black minivan with a lot of damage done to it.

And a shoulder with air bag abrasions.

And a forearm with bruises from the steering wheel.

I feel like I have been hit by a bus. Which is funny (kind of, not really) because I really was hit by a bus.

Yes, the girls were with me.

Yes, they are OK.

Yes, after an ultrasound and blood tests and several hours of monitoring, Baby Shiloh is OK.

Yes, I am OK.

Yes, this is the longest pregnancy in the history of all pregnancies.

But I am not here to talk about the accident. I am trying to erase it from my mind completely. I am not here to talk about my short cervix or bed rest.

I am here to talk about how much I love food…especially potatoes. By looking at me, you can tell I have never met a potato I didn’t like. Loaded, baked, fried, julienned, sliced, diced, crispy, fluffy, mashed, creamy, chunky, in soup, or shredded. I. Luh. Potatoes.

However, because I have the sweet blood, my potato intake has had to substantially lower. In fact, I haven’t had a potato of any kind in an entire week since I started monitoring my blood sugar.

You’re impressed I haven’t killed anyone. I can tell.

It’s not that you can’t have potatoes when you have gestational diabetes/diabeetus, but the portion size has to be so small that, to me, it isn’t worth it to eat them at all. I have no self control, so I cannot be expected to eat only half a small order of french fries or exactly 14 potato chips or whatever the ridiculous serving size is.

It is simply easier and better if I don’t attempt to eat potatoes at all.

When I met with the nutritionist last week, she happily explained to me that I could have a 4″ baked potato.

I didn’t know 4″ baked potatoes existed. The ones I buy at the store have got to be at least 7-8″ long. So, of course, I would have to cut it in half and act like I was so satisfied with that, most likely eating it with a baby fork so as to make it lost longer. Not worth it.

Suffice it to say that food has been on my mind constantly. I have been fantasizing about the meal I would have upon Shiloh’s delivery. I have obsessively looked up nutrition information for all of my favorite restaurants to see what I could get away with eating. I have found blogs and sites devoted to low-carb copycat recipes for things like desserts and Starbucks drinks…because my regular drink at Starbucks contains more carbs than I am allowed in my entire dinner. So there’s that.

I have thrown quite the pity party for myself…gotten jealous of the pictures people post of their food on Facebook (which is a problem in and of itself), cried when I couldn’t just eat what I was craving at the moment, and wanted to strangle Luke when he returned home from a birthday party and went on and on and on about how good the food was.

Clearly, I need therapy. Or wine. But since I am pregnant and have diabeetus, wine is out.

Before about 1 p.m. yesterday, I thought my life was over because of food.

But to think that my daughters, my unborn child, or I could have been seriously hurt as a result of that accident yesterday…it’s truly (yet another) lesson in perspective.

I told Luke this morning that I feel this pregnancy has been one giant test. A test of my strength. A test of my faith. A test of my sanity. A test of my priorities. A test of my willpower. In all of these areas, I have struggled throughout my life. I’ve made mountains out of mole hills. I’ve turned away from my faith instead of toward it. I’ve given in and given up too many times to count.

But this pregnancy isn’t letting me give up…and after each hurdle I have had to jump, I have learned something new about myself.

Yesterday, I learned that there is so much more to life than sugary, carby food. I will get through the dietary restrictions and soon enough, I will have a blissful reunion with carbs.

Of course, I have always known this. But now I will never forget it.

Family. Safety. Health.

Everything else is small potatoes.

It is certainly crazy how quickly things can change.

A little over 2 weeks ago, I was returning home from a trip to Nashville with my female in-laws. My husband had just treated to me to an amazing night at a Sara Bareilles concert in Cincinnati. I had just consumed the most incredible pork BBQ sandwich I had ever tasted.

I had no idea I would soon be dealing with advanced cervical shortening, threatened preterm labor, modified bed rest, and now gestational diabetes. Yep…the results are in. Failed.

I had no idea that my calendar would soon be filled with weekly ultrasounds, weekly non-stress tests, and now meetings with a nutritionist and diabetes educator.

I cancelled over ten photo sessions and won’t be teaching my preschool class until January.

I, the mother who resigned from her full-time position to stay home with her children, have had to take them to daycare everyday because I cannot keep up with their needs, wants, and demands when I am home alone with them.

I have experienced the guilt of “taking it easy” and “getting off my feet” because it feels completely unnatural to not be interacting with my children in the ways I am used to…to not be cooking every meal (or any meal)…to not be running from point A to point B to back to point A and so on and so forth.

My head has been spinning, and I would be lying if I said I was taking it all in stride. I have broken down. I have cried puddles of tears. I have lost my temper out of frustration. I have questioned why this was happening as if surely someone else was more deserving of this situation than me.

But I think there comes a point when you just get tired of feeling sorry for yourself. It feels gross and like a massive waste of time and energy. And right now, I can’t afford to waste neither time nor energy.

There’s a popular saying, “When it rains, it pours.” My, haven’t I felt the meaning of those words lately.

But I also know that when it rains, all kinds of good things happen.

Like…the grass turns greener.

Flowers can grow.

And the ground softens.

We get free car washes.

I love the smell of rain.

And who doesn’t love the sound as it hits the rooftop and windows?

We have been completely overwhelmed by the generosity of our friends and family throughout this ordeal. From encouraging Facebook comments and messages to texts and phone calls…and meal deliveries and taking our girls out so that they could have some fun and I could get some rest…and the prayers. It has all been a tremendous blessing born from a pretty miserable and frightening situation.

Each passing day is a victory. Each passing week is a triumph.

And sometimes, each passing hour calls for a celebration.

But I am OK.

Bring on the rain.

I’m sorry. If I sound a little bitter, it could be because my cervix is still being a little shit and is now HALF a centimeter long, AND I found out that I failed my one-hour glucose test (which I passed in my prior two pregnancies) so I now have another date with the nasty diabeetus drink and a three-hour stay in the hospital lab’s waiting room. The joy. 

You know how on Facebook, you can change your Relationship Status to say, “It’s Complicated?”

Maybe ol’ Mark Zuckerberg could add a line to say Pregnancy Status, and you could choose from a few options:

It’s Awesome

It Sucks, but I’m Just a Whiner

It’s Complicated

I just want to tell everyone who asks me how I am doing, how I am feeling, when I am due, how far along I am, etc, etc, etc…It’s Complicated.

And believe me, I know that “complicated” doesn’t mean horrible. I know that it could be worse…it could always be worse. I know that “complicated” doesn’t mean the end of the world. I know that I have to take things one day at a time, but ifIhearIhavetotakethingsonedayatatimeagainIwillscreambecausedon’twealreadyknowthatdaysonlycomeoneatatimeanyway?

What complicated does mean is that I don’t have a straight-forward answer for how I am feeling. I am all the feels. In the span of 15 minutes, I feel fine, stressed, frustrated, sad, peaceful, hopeful, and pissed off. But I am sure you don’t want to hear about all that, so I will just tell you it’s complicated.

Complicated means fighting every possible urge to be jealous of every seemingly smooth and flawless pregnancy you see in your News Feed. I have almost quit on Facebook 3,472 times over the past 10 days, but then I realized I wouldn’t have anything to keep me company during the day whilst on the bed  of rest. For real life friends that I actually care about, I’m certainly happy your pregnancies are going well, but I can’t help but be sad and do the whole Nancy Kerrigan “WHY me? WHY?” thing. Repeatedly.

Speaking of that, complicated is lonely. And the worst part is that people are actually trying to help me and going out of their way to let me know I am not alone, but the days feel empty and hollow and lonely anyway. It’s difficult to explain and thus, complicated. When you are the person who thrives on the socialization that even especially Target provides, being stuck inside your house for an entire day feels extremely isolating and torturous.

Complicated is the excitement of bringing a new baby into the world mixed with the fear of having her too early. I have been dragging my feet on getting anything ready because it feels like that would be encouraging her to come early.

Complicated is the desire for more children but realizing that the risk of getting pregnant again and chancing this same scenario feels selfish and dangerous. It is hard not to jump to that conclusion at this point, but I would never knowingly put another unborn child at risk of being born prematurely, nor would I want to cause such an inconvenience for my family if I were to become sidelined again. It’s a lot to think about, and, unfortunately, I have a lot of time to think.

Believe me, I know I have complained more in the above paragraphs than a man with the sniffles, which makes me want to punch myself (which is also complicated). So the one thing I will say that has been a positive of this entire situation is I am in awe of the generosity and sweetness of our friends and family. From watching our children to bringing us meals to just listening quietly while I leak verbal diarrhea by the cup-full…we truly have a great support system.

But at the end of the day, this pregnancy is still complicated. My feelings are complicated.

And my cervix is an asshole…which is really, really complicated.

This post involves using the word cervix. If you don’t like the word cervix, please consider this a fair warning to head to Fox News or ESPN or just scratch your eyeballs out and try to forget it ever happened.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

I have actually been pregnant four times. It’s kind of weird to think about. I lost my first baby at about 10 weeks due to a miscarriage. I am not going to candy-coat it. It sucked, and changed my perception of pregnancy and childbirth forever. It was nearly 6 years ago now, and I am in a much better place, but my heart will always hurt for the baby I never got to see or hold.

I went on to have two very successful pregnancies and subsequent deliveries. I have always loved being pregnant. I have never had morning sickness (don’t hate), I didn’t swell up like the Michelin man until right before delivery with my first, and I could always keep up my usual level of activity with no complications. I’d read or hear about people having issues, and I would always thank my lucky stars.

Little did I know when I was pregnant with Noelle that my body in fact was an alien creature and I did have something weird going on. At 38 weeks pregnant, my cervix (had to just jump right in with it) was dilated to 7 cm without me having any contractions whatsoever. My OB couldn’t really believe it and said in her years of practice, I was the first person to present with this weird phenomenon without one single contraction that I was aware of.

If I could, I would have pat my cervix on the back or given it a high five. Yay, Cervix! You are freaking awesome! I am already 70% finished with your ass. Just burn off the other 3 cm and give me my baby. I was a Zumba addict at that time, going to 2-3 classes per week and loving every second. I was certain my intense hip gyrations and frequent pineapple smoothies were to blame/praise for my Super Cervix Status.

I ended up having to be induced because my doctor was crazy scared I was going to deliver along the side of the road (I was commuting from Indianapolis to Muncie for work). She basically told me to take it easy, and then 2 days later, I was induced and Noelle was born (after 4 hours of pushing– I like to throw that in there).

Fast forward about 2 1/2 years later, and I was pregnant with Charlotte. We were living in Muncie, so no more commuting for work, but I kept my same OB in Indianapolis so that my husband’s colleagues weren’t witness to my nanny business while I was trying to have a baby. A girl needs some modesty and anonymity, right?

Well, at about 33 weeks, I had this feeling that Charlotte was going to drop straight out of me. No contractions, but I was too scared to even go to the bathroom because I knew I would be the perfect candidate for one of those shows like, “I had my baby in the toilet.” I mean, I wouldn’t mind being famous, but not for that. Geez.

So I went to the doctor and forced the nurse practitioner to check and see what the heck was going on down there. As it turned out, I was 3 cm dilated already at 33 weeks. This raised some red flags, and they hooked me up to the contraction monitor for observation. After an hour of monitoring with no contractions, they determined that I was a true freak of nature and sent me on my way. Super Cervix was at it again, but it was a little too early to get excited.

The weeks passed on without event, and, sure enough, at my 38 week appointment, I was 7 cm dilated again. I still hadn’t had any contractions, so kept trucking along at school, all the while peeing my pants every single time I sneezed (such an awesome side-effect of pregnancy). We had Grandparents’ Day on a Friday, and I was set to be induced that following Monday. I expected to have my baby in my arms by Monday afternoon.

That Saturday night, I felt what reminded me of little tiny gnomes inside my nether regions, using ice picks and other tiny tools to poke their way out of my cervix. It was such a strange, yet hilarious visual, that it kept me up all night, all the while thinking, “This is weird.” Still, no contractions.

I spent all of Sunday lazing around and mentally preparing for my induction and, quite honestly, straightening my hair because I wanted to look good throughout the induction process. Sue me, OK? By Sunday night, I was feeling some pretty nasty back pain, but no contractions.

It’s just that this back pain was coming at steady intervals of about a minute part. No big deal.

Actually, big, giant, damn deal.

By about 8:45 that night, it hit me that I was experiencing that lovely “back labor” phenomenon, and that the baby was going to be born very soon. In between bouts of panic and pure terror, Luke and I made the decision that a trip to Indianapolis would not be happening, as I probably really would deliver along the side of the road. I called my parents to come stay with Noelle at 9 p.m. Luke threw towels in the car just in case, and Charlotte was born at 9:25. The end.

And Luke’s colleagues totally saw my nanny business.

So now that you have that information, I will tell you about this third pregnancy of mine. Not as flawless as the other two, but not bad. I’ve had more aches and pains. I’ve had more ultrasounds, some elective, some not. I’ve had to take it “easier” throughout these 25 weeks. However, I have still attended  step aerobics pretty regularly, chased my two girls around, and walked around Target approximately 3,742 times without incident.

OK, I shouldn’t say without incident. I did have to be given 2 liters of IV fluids at 20 weeks because I had some pesky, regular contractions for about 6 hours after a strenuous day of zoo-walking in 90 degree heat. But I will slap my own wrist for that one. I have also had very intermittent, at times regular, contractions since then…but nothing to get too concerned about.

Because of my super fast delivery with Charlotte, we now use a Muncie doctor who just happens to work in the same office as my husband. I lost all of my modesty and anonymity during Charlotte’s delivery anyway, so I decided to play it safe and keep it local. Because having a baby in a toilet would probably better than having it in my husband’s new Suburu along I-69.

We started monitoring for incompetent cervix at about 14 weeks with internal ultrasounds at our hospital’s perinatal specialist. The first thing he said upon shaking my hand was “You have a beautiful cervix.”

High five, Cervix. You’re magical!

Everything was measuring normal at the following 18 week ultrasound. Still holding strong and given over-achiever status.

However, at our most recent, 25 week, ultrasound, the air was let out of the room when the ultrasound technician said with a stern face, “Where did your cervix go…?”

It had shortened from 4 cm to just barely over 1 cm. If you look at ONE measly little centimeter on a ruler, you will see that that is all that is keeping my sweet baby inside of me. When people write gross things on Facebook during labor such as “I am 75% effaced,” well…that’s me. Right now. 25 weeks.

Over-achiever alright.

But no one is congratulating me on this. It’s actually pretty serious.

You know how I know? Because my husband is a doctor, and he doesn’t worry about things. In fact, I have told everyone who will listen about all the times he has under-reacted to my health ailments. Like…when he told me to gargle salt water when I really had developed pneumonia and barely had O2 saturation levels over 90%. Or when I was writhing in the emergency room 3 days before Christmas with abdominal pain, doped up on dilaudid, and he thought they should just release me and we could “manage it at home.” Ended up having an appendectomy which revealed a ruptured ovarian cyst. No big deal. No big deal at all.

So basically, he does not give in to every little ache and pain because he knows that most of the time, it is nothing. It’s all normal. But if you would have heard the sighs and seen the head shakes come out of him, you would know that this was the real deal.

My cervix had gone and done it now. No high five, Sir (my cervix is a male– coincidence? I think not). I kind of want to smack the shit out of you.

All I wanted to know was what does this mean and what do we do about it? Well, it is a humbling experience when the perinatal guru says “I can nearly guarantee you won’t make it to 36 weeks.” OK, I can handle, like, 35.5 weeks.

But what if I had her at 28 weeks? Or 30 weeks? She’s viable, of course, but what kind of complications are we looking at? What kind of implications on her future does this present?

Or worse…what if I had her this week? My mind just kept racing through all the different scenarios. All I could think about was delivering a tiny, helpless, premie baby who may have difficulty breathing on her own…or functioning later in life.

It’s a scary, sad, anxious situation to be in.

And let me make this clear. I am scared for her. I am sad for her. I am anxious for her. I will do whatever I have to do to get her as close to full-term as possible. I am determined to do it. I see no reason why I can’t have her at 37 or 38 weeks like my other two.

So, we have started steroid shots for her lung development. Do you know they stick that needle in your ass? Just checking.

We also are starting some other medications to prevent preterm labor. Since I have already had contractions, I am not eligible for a cerclage (i.e. sewing up my cervix) according to perinatal guru.

And of course I have been told to be on bed rest. After I glared at perinatal guru for 3.7 seconds, he said, “Bed rest, not bed ridden,” as all I could think of was “How will I take care of my girls while staying ‘relaxed’ and ‘rested.’ ” And how fair was this to either of them? One thing I know for sure is that I won’t be able to be the same Mama to them for the next (hopefully) 12 weeks. It is difficult to say over and over again, “Mama can’t chase you.” “You can’t come up and sit on Mama’s belly.” “I can’t pick you up.” “Wait until Papa gets home to go outside and play.”

Obviously, step aerobics class is out. Unnecessary trips to Indianapolis or even just walking around stores alone are out. I cancelled all my photography clients for August and September because I’m pretty sure running after toddlers, playing “Scare the crap out of Ashley” for a smile, and crawling around in the grass for the perfect shot, in summer heat, is frowned upon while on “bed rest.” Basically, when I can, I should be “resting.” I cannot and will not take the risk of doing something frivolous and silly and then sending myself into preterm labor.

My biggest priority is her. And we have named her Shiloh.

We haven’t kept her name a secret. If you have asked me, I have told you. But this is her public name debut. It means tranquil. It’s a town mentioned in the Old Testament. And the teacher in me recalls it as my favorite novel to read with my 4th graders. It’s a story of perseverance and pride and growing up and realizing the world isn’t fair. It’s a story of standing up for what you believe in and risking everything to help someone (in that case, an abused dog) in need.

The Battle of Shiloh was also a major battle of the Civil War.

I think it fits her perfectly.

And my, is she perfect. She’s measuring right on track. She moves like crazy and has a strong heart. We have every intention of having a very healthy baby.

Shiloh.

She’s going to be such a wonderful addition to our family…no matter when she comes or how she comes or what we have to do to get her here.

I’m ready to fight for her and stand up for her and persevere through the toughest situations, if it comes to that, for my sweet Shiloh.

So now that you know her name, could you pray for her? Could you picture her as a fully-grown, healthy baby?

No matter the battle we will have to conquer to bring her safely into this world, it will be so worth it.

But damn you, Cervix. Damn you.