As it turns out, I received a big fat FAIL on my one hour glucose tolerance test. So now I have to do the three hour. Next week, which loosely translates as: finals week, you are totally screwed, dude.
So if profanity offends your delicate senses, please excuse me for a moment...
Now. I will be going in for my three hour on Friday, because I had to pull the "I have finals next week and need to study because I am a procrastinating underachiever so screw you and your Monday or Wednesday appointment."
The doctor, being a doctor who went to medical school and so probably understands the sheer doom of finals, was fine with me putting my appointment off until Friday. But the appointment schedulers? Oh, no. They were not happy. Because they already had a three-hour scheduled for Friday.
One. Three hour. Already scheduled. Please forgive me for not understanding the Big Deal. But a Big Deal it was, or, "A Recipe for a Mistake," according to the appointment ladies. Thank goodness for my (super hottie*) doctor, who said that was stupid, and made them schedule me for a half hour later than the first appointment.
But seriously? Is it that confusing to deal with two sets of blood? That is kind of pathetic, and also? There were three cups of pee in the little cubby when I left my sample, so if they can't keep blood straight, what do they do with the pee? What if they confuse it with their lemonade? Dear God! The sheer humanity!
The possibility of Wilford Brimleyepper is still pending until next week. Let's just hope I can get the day off work...
Other than the diabeetus scare, the appointment was fine. Heart rate perfect, growth good, no exposure to RH. Start my every other week appointments. Giddy up.
The belly is growing, the belly button is almost nonexistent, weight gain is 18 pounds. I can't sleep laying down in my bed, so I sleep sitting up on the big comfy chair in our living room. But I am feeling pretty great. Cupcake moves all the time. Life is pretty good right now, and will improve immensely after next week because I will graduate and will have a normal life like a normal adult.
I've been lucky enough to avoid any asshat encounters, save the lady at Macy's yesterday who asked me if my baby was due on Christmas, and then was shocked when I said February. I should have faked labor right there.
*Our doctor is hawt, much to Mark's delight. We call her Suzy (not to her face), which is wholly inappropriate and still hysterical to only us. It's all OK, though, because I have a hawt chiropractor (he has no nickname). We also have a hawt female insurance agent.**
**We are weird. And only do business with hawt people, I guess.