Lard, cheap lard for sale...

And in the midst of being swept away in relief and joy, I realise there is the small matter of me being hugely overpregnant. I say overpregnant because, although I am only 24 weeks, the doctor is measuring me at 33 weeks. It’s quite normal for twins, he assures me. My body disagrees. There’s nothing normal about the fact that, for once, my arse is not my biggest appendage. Also I have a spot of gestational diabetes. Probably more a large splatter than a spot. This is common amongst twin pregnancies. And fat Eastern European Jews. And members of my family. So it’s not like I wasn’t expecting it. But it means I have to prick myself four times a day to check my blood. And I have to avoid most carbohydrates, tropical fruit and men with moustaches. Will you think me sick if I admit I actually enjoy checking my blood? There’s something quite satisfying about seeing the effects that food has on my body. R and I now have a tipping competition where we each guess what my blood will be. The closest gets to eat a diabetic lolly. God we know how to party.

The Type A competitive elements of my personality also enjoy the fact that I’m constantly putting myself to the test. At this stage of the pregnancy I’m mostly passing. Any blood glucose reading between 4 and 7 is acceptable. I feel good about fives, but slightly nervous about sixes. When O was in hospital I had one or two nines. I was astounded at the impact stress has on blood glucose levels. I did a few little tests where I’d eat nothing, ask R to give me a big fright, then test my blood. Once, it got to ten with two frights and no food. Fuck, my body’s dumb. If only I could trick it into making me thin, we might have a working relationship.

Phwyoooo! Feels great to return to my old neuroses and plague myself with something other than tethered cords and the impact of morphine on an infant.