You Know You’re Broke

piggy bank photo: Piggy Bank a16776f6.jpgYou know you’re broke when:

1)      You start couponing even though you have food stamps.

2)      A good sale is like winning the lotto.

3)      You know which store has the best price for certain products.

4)      You reuse everything.

5)      You know how to cook with old food and still make it taste good.

6)      Your budget is a work of art.

7)      You save all your cans and anything that is metal.

8)      You pay all your bills online because you can’t afford the stamps.

9)      You steal internet from your neighbor and hope the bastard doesn’t move before you can take advantage of an internet promotion.

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3 Hour Glucose Test=Bang My Head Against the Wall

Alright long story short: I’m pregnant again and failed my 1 hour glucose test. I guess I shouldn’t be too surprised; I had a cookie the morning of my test. What the hell was I thinking? Oh, yeah, that’s right, I wasn’t. Now I wish I had been—I take that back. The moment I received the letter in the mail informing me that my glucose was “elevated,” I regretted my lack of brain activity.

Am I surprised? Yeah, a little—my first pregnancy was rather normal. So, I naturally expected this one to generally follow the same pattern and be A-okay like some corny movie. This has definitely not been the case. Round number two has been a roller coaster filled with more twists and upside down loops than I care to handle. I’ll leave out the monstrous mood swings and get to the nitty-gritty.

Differences between pregnancy #1 and pregnancy #2:

A)     I haven’t been very careful with my diet. (Sugar, sugar, sugar.)

B)      Nor have I exercised regularly.

C)      I’ve also been stressed out.

D)     I had a cold for like two months.

All of these factors can have an effect on the outcome of a glucose reading (so I’ve read). Does this information make me feel better? Well, it did when I first read the letter. Now I’m worried.

Not to mention it’s 1:30am and I’m cranky about the prospect of not eating for an extended period of time. I’m not sure if I’ll even be able to take the test tomorrow. I reread the letter and apparently I was supposed to call and ask for locations and times. I was under the impression that I could use the clinic I’ve always used for my blood drawings. I guess that’s what I get for not reading carefully; then again they could have called. A phone call would have been awesome. I could have gotten my results instead of a vague word like, “elevated.” I could have had a nice conversation about the dos and don’ts of this upcoming test. Instead I’m scouring the internet reading crap.

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Busy with Baby

I’ve written a few posts (in a notebook that never found their way to the computer) since I’ve had my child. What can I say? Being a new parent is a job all by itself, one that I enjoy and am completely consumed by. Sometimes I wonder if life will ever go back to the way it was–a life of work, and myself, all the time to myself (not that I want it to). No more diapers and barf rags, no more wee hours of the morning staring at pretty blue eyes saying, “Ehem, are you ever going to bed?” And she’ll just coo at me.

Ah, the coos they make all your frustrations go away. They don’t take away the dark circles under my eyes, but who has time to look at those? I’ve been hit by the baby train. It’s a locomotive that makes women gaga over plump, little humans. I see babies everywhere. Everywhere, I tell you. I can’t go to the grocery store without seeing another baby! And then of course, that train comes and bombards my thoughts with ones that are really–let’s face it–not important. I’ll wonder how old the child is, only so I can compare it to my own. Yeah, I’m worried about her growth already. God help me when she starts school.

I don’t stop and ask the other mom how old her kid is, thank goodness. I find it odd and awkward. I’ve had people ask me and it usually catches me off guard. I’ll be examining the carrots and some older gentleman will ask how old my daughter is. I have to pause and switch from thinking about mold to how many weeks have gone by since I’ve given birth. For awhile there my little girl was  stuck at 8 weeks old. Maybe I liked the idea of her being 2 months instead of x weeks.

My favorite blunder was, “oh what a cute little boy.” Yeah…that always goes over well especially when the child is dressed in pink! Come on, pink for boys? I don’t think she looks like a boy but, hey, I’m her mother.

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