What Did You Think I was Doing?

Didn’t think I’d be the sort to participate in this sort of thing. I’m hoping my husband doesn’t covertly sneak up behind me. It’s 10pm and I’m in the kitchen indulging with ravening, unbridled delight. My eyes closed in ecstasy, my body heaves with delight, a gratified smile; and I’m done. What? Get your mind out of the gutter! I’m pregnant and redeeming my right as such to eat ice-cream from the tub in an unscheduled craving.

What did you think I was doing?

Week eight of pregnancy and they hit me like a ton of bricks, these ‘cravings’. Just to make it a gazillion times more challenging (challenge = positive word choice for ‘crap’) is the fact I have Type 1 Diabetes. At first it was a novelty I’d giggle away with an air of composure – cravings were humorous, slightly compelling but really just part of this fascinating experience called ‘pregnancy’. Then they turned to the dark side. They became magnetized, insatiable demons. They couldn’t be shouldered, tricked or pacified with a similar (sugar free) tasting morsel. I was losing ground fast and compounded by constant waves of nausea and Maxalon induced deliria, I had visions of my baby being born fat and puffy (because of my elevated sugar levels) and relatives commenting “He’s the spitting image of you, Vanessa.” I’ll admit I have it easier than most of my ‘D’ sister’s – being on an insulin pump is technology magic when that chocolate craving comes knocking. (Well actually, it’s not so much of a knock than a barge in without an excuse me).

I’ve come up with the following analogy: pregnancy cravings must be akin to a firing male libido, except more legitimate of course. First a tantalizing and mostly sugary vision pops into your head, secondly your tongue begins to imagine (just ride with me) what it would be like to experience the vision in question, and thirdly you then convince yourself that if the vision in question doesn’t marry itself with your taste buds within a finite amount of time you will A) Die or B) Die. It’s that simple really.

As a modern, pregnant woman who just happens to have Diabetes, I want to take a stand on the pickle and ice cream stereotype. Although the thought doesn’t completely disgust me, (I’ve eaten much worse combinations in hypo) I’d much rather snack on salty peanuts (alfoil packed for maximum freshness of course), crisp red delicious apples, hard cheese and premium vanilla ice cream. Second thoughts: after polishing off that frosty tub of Peters, I may steer clear of the dairy for a short spell. Whadda know? Not only am I a pregnant woman but I’m also charading as a demanding rock diva. Mental note: better take advantage of this last trickle of glamour because I haven’t seen Jennifer Lopez accessorizing her latest video clip outfit with breast pads lately.

I think there’s also a Universal, Karmic payback thing happening with the whole ‘pregnancy commanding the utmost from our health and nutrition’ gig. Quite frankly, you couldn’t give stuff. All you’re concerned about is not vomiting in public, keeping your sugars Endo friendly and coming to grips the fact that your life is changing forever and what would you do if one day you were out with the baby and you hypo-ed and didn’t have any jellybeans and no money and then got disorientated and lost the baby and… ok this last one is just me projecting my maternal fears… At 5 ½ weeks when morning sickness graced me, I was lucky to be keeping down sips of water and those crackers ‘they’ say settle your tummy, let alone six serves of fruit and veg, four of dairy, and the plethora of maternity vitamins for embryonic health. Have you ever tried to swallow one of those calcium tablets? Chalky, huge, ruthlessly unpalatable and the blighters must be taken three times daily after meals. Crikey, the damn tablet is a meal! My pump was beeping with the best of ‘em as I’d test my sugars every few hours and adjust my insulin with the ‘little and often’ approach to food I’d taken. That also describes how my bladder seemed to operate from that point on, but that’s a story I’ll save you from. Eating small portions of moderately healthy food every few hours seemed to remedy my unsettled stomach and hopefully contributed to some sort of positive nutrition for my developing baby. Little thing will more than likely grow up with a penchant for chocolate rice cream and biccies with a scraping of butter.

Anthony, my sweet husband of 11 years (when we met and I told him I had Diabetes, his response was “Cool”) resigned himself to the fact that for the duration of this pregnancy, whatever I say goes and there’s no option to phone a friend or go 50/50. Vegemite sandwich at 9pm after we’ve both just wearily collapsed into bed? No problems. Glucometer/raspberry cordial/jellybean run between the all important Bargain Hunt (9.00pm, Lifestyle channel)? Sure honey. He’s worth his weight in gold, but then it’s a reciprocal arrangement, after all, I am carrying his first born child and heir to our inevitable and multi-million dollar corporate computer empire. What?

Beside a cast iron will not to spill the beans too early with gushing excitement, I discovered that pregnancy requires another skill: ‘Rations logistics’, or to the non-pregnant person, ‘gathering, transporting, storing and eating the nibbles that stave a morning sick belly with discretion as to not draw attention to your suspicious habits’. We’re used to having food on call 24/7 but believe me, the compulsion spirals when pregnant. Before starting work each morning, I’d venture to the supermarket to buy rice crackers, nuts, butterscotch sucking lollies (‘godsend’) and anything else that looked bite-size and took my fancy on the day. Apart from my newfound squirreling, the other clue to my ‘situation’ (God, that sounds awful - as if I’ve accidentally plonked myself on a sperm and ended up in a remote country on a Government mission) was the undeniable fact my glowing, rosy complexion (I’m a skincare specialist) had taken on a distinctly pallid haze. In the early weeks I’m positive I looked like a perspiring, game show hostess reject whose lessons in make-up application lost out to late nights and professional vagueness (think severe hypo with an extra helping of sweat and giddiness). Dipping into my personalized pantry (okay, so it used to be an excess stock drawer), became my ‘best kept secret’ at work, apart from the obvious.

The three month mark behind me and still no light at the end of the tunnel when it comes to the ‘C’ word. In fact, it may be getting worse – I think now I’m just used to giving my body whatever it asks for, without question or hesitation to expense. My latest craving? Haighs freshly handmade chocolates, no less. Did I mention the impoliteness of chocolate cravings? Anthony is helpless to their temptation too, spoiling me (or us?) with cute ribbon tied bags of cashews and peanuts. I’ve never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth, and for the sake of a few saturated fat calories and a few extra clicks of my pump, Buddha knows I’m not going to start now. (Well slap me on the wrist and call me Satan.)

Putting aside the increasing level of pregnancy advice that women (not necessarily mothers!) and disconcertingly, men are showering on me, the one thing I look forward to is gaining control of my appetite again. Being the captain of my own ship! Cooking, eating and buying food with composure, grace and without slobbering! The realization that this window of dignity will be short lived when my vomiting, poo-ing, reflux-ing, breast-suckling bundle of joy arrives, dashes my fantasies quicker than you can say “Pass me a pretzel.” Ideas flourish in times of clarity though, so I’m starting on an interim project until the birth called “The Sugar-Free Craving Cookbook – culinary hormonal adventures”. The first recipe is a fiery blend of Tabasco, cream, tubular spaghetti and capsicum. Mixed with custard. The words ‘second printing’ and ‘anthology’ flash before my eyes. All this excitement makes me hungry so I beeline for the fridge (Anthony’s done the grocery shopping this week all by himself, good boy!) My anticipation is vaporized as I glare into a chilly void. A solitary, undated bottle of gherkins, some jelly I made up two nights ago and a few pieces of fruit that have definitely seen better days return my gloomy stare. Well, you don’t have to be a rocket scientist to work out what happens next. Yep! I grab my keys and I’m off to the supermarket… can’t possibly eat those gherkins without ice cream.