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.