Birth Story, Part 1

Several people have asked me for details about how everything went during the little one's delivery.

Brace yourself. This is gonna be a long one.

(And if you can't handle words like "cervix", do yourself a favor and skip out now. :))

(One more warning - opinions expressed here are about ME and MY birth. I have no opinions about how other people choose to give birth. I know that this subject can be touchy for a lot of people. Just because certain things were right for me doesn't mean I think they should be right for you.)

Let's flash back for a second. At my 37 week appointment, my doctor (with whom at that point I had a very uncomfortable relationship of tip toeing around each other, trying not to aggravate one another) said awkwardly to me, "Your next appointment is your 39 week appointment. If baby hasn't shown up by then, we'll start talking about.... induction." He then high tailed it from the room, fully expecting world war III. I chose to deal with that not unexpected news by ignoring it. I was already so stressed out by the doctors and the perinatologist telling me I couldn't do this and I couldn't do that, and that I was already a neglectful parent, that I honestly couldn't handle another one of their "what if's". Anyway, I was thinking positively. I was using my Hypno tools - I started listening to the "Come Out Baby" CD at 37 weeks. Surely she would be here by then. No worries at all.

Of course, she wasn't. The day before the 39 week appointment, I started having some minor panic attacks. I. DID. NOT. WANT. AN. INDUCTION. Basically I felt like an induction with pitocin was pretty much forcing your body to do something it obviously wasn't ready for yet, leading either to contractions that were too close together or stalled labor, both leading to a c-section... and then all the work, all the fight I had put in to have my natural birth the way I wanted, was all for nothing. Yes, yes, yes. We have all heard a MILLION TIMES that nothing at all matters besides a healthy baby. Tip: Never say that to anyone. I mean, c'mon. It's a given. And saying NOTHING AT ALL matters but that isn't true anyway. That matters the MOST. That's not to say other things don't matter. And this mattered to me. A lot. (I mean, come on, if I was destined to have a C-section anyway, I would have preferred to just schedule it, rather than go through 200 hours of labor just to end up there anyway.)

I started plotting ways to just skip the appointment all together. If I waited til the next week, I'd be 40 weeks anyway... and maybe she'd come on her own by then. I tried every old wives tale anyone mentioned to me to naturally induce labor (except castor oil. Ew.). Not a single contraction. Instead, I conned my husband into coming to the appointment with me, to back me up when the fighting began. (This ended up seriously backfiring.)

That place knows how to build up anxiety. First you wait. And wait. Then the resident comes in. Then you wait some more. Then the endocrinologist comes in to adjust your insulin. At this point, I realized that "CRAZY PSYCHO PATIENT" must be written in huge letters at the top of my chart, because the endo remarked, "They are going to want you to have an induction. Go easy on them. They really are looking out for your best interests." (Are they? How do they even know what my best interests are? I always felt that they were looking out for their own best interests - namely, not getting sued if something happened to my baby.)

Then the OB came in - with an entourage. It was as if he knew what was coming and wanted to have plenty of witnesses when I landed in court on battery charges. He even brought the ridiculous and inanely useless clinic nurse.

He told us exactly what we expected - I was 39 weeks, and they wanted to schedule the induction for that Friday. That was their policy for diabetics. They do this because of the chance of intrauterine death after 39 weeks. And yes, he said pointedly looking at me, he has seen it happen even in very well controlled diabetics.

Unlike the last time we argued, there was a very forced, very fake calmness to the conversation.

No. I did not want an induction.

Wayne asked about numbers. What was the actual risk in waiting, percentage wise? When were the last studies on those numbers done? The OB didn't know. It happens. And I didn't want my baby to die, did I? This was the best thing for everyone's safety. (I hate how, when doctors are trying to convince you of something, They make it seem like you don't care about whatever it is you aren't choosing. Don't want the induction? You must not care about this baby at all!) Wayne pressed the issue a little more. What if we increased the number of non stress tests we were having? Every other day, or even every day? Didn't that prove that the placenta was healthy and getting blood to baby? Apparently not enough to make the OB feel comfortable with it.

"Wait just one more week. One more." She's not ready. My body is obviously not ready.

"Our medical recommendation is induction. On Friday." And that was it.

Then they all, the entire entourage, plus my husband, turned and stared at me. That was single handedly the most uncomfortable few moments of my life. And it felt like forever. All of them just waiting for me to see it their way. I felt very small, and very defeated, but I still whispered, "No." And they continued to stare at me, as if I'd suddenly see the error of my ways and change my mind.

"Maybe we should get another ultrasound," the clinic nurse suggested. "You haven't had one in about a month." As if I didn't clearly see through that move. Maybe the baby's too big! Maybe we can use that angle to convince her!

Fine. Whatever. I was too worn out and stressed out by that point to argue anything else. I was already in tears when the ultrasound tech came in. Poor thing, I'm sure almost all her patients are usually happy. She had no idea what to do with a patient who sobbed when she told her, "Look! Your baby is sucking her thumb!" She must have figured something was terribly, terribly wrong, because she sent for reinforcements - enter in awkward clinic nurse again and yet another doctor, to explain to me again all the benefits of an induction, just in case the tears had potentially wiped my brain clean in the last 5 minutes. Basically the only way we made it out of the clinic was to promise to think about it.

I went home angry and yet very calm in my decision. My husband, not so much. My husband is a scientist - a very logical man who trusts in numbers and research and assessing risks. But we had no real numbers to help us in the assessment of that risk at all. He was caught horribly between supporting his pregnant wife or choosing something that could potentially save his child.

What followed can officially be known as "The Week From HELL." As Wayne saw it, no matter how miniscule the risk was (and we didn't know exactly how miniscule that was) - it was still a risk. And it was a risk with dire, dire consequences. Or, as he put it, a 0.001% risk x 0 child can still equal 0 child. It was a pretty morbid week.

I will never be able to explain my reasons enough for anyone out there to understand why I would continue to refuse something once told that my child could actually die. It sounds, and feels, horrible to type. I couldn't even get Wayne to understand it. At one point it we wondered if we were being "greedy", or "selfish". After all, we had waited so long for this baby, gone through so much for her, struggled and argued and fought for her sake - maybe we were asking for too much? Just how important was this "experience" for me, anyway?

I just knew that my daughter was healthy. Mother's intuition? I don't really know. Every ultrasound showed she was perfectly formed, and a perfect size. My A1C's had always been comparable to a non-diabetic's. My non-stress tests had been stellar. She moved and kicked with clockwork regularity. Maybe that's not enough. But I knew.

Wayne stressed over the issue to the point he made himself physically ill with a cold all week. All the poor guy had to go on was my assurances that baby was fine, and doctor's insistance that the induction happen.

I started walking insane distances around our little town. I walked and walked and walked, frantically trying to induce labor naturally in the three days that I had before the forced eviction. And I started to talk to everyone I knew who had had an induction, chose not to have an induction, knew anything about an induction... I scoured the internet boards for any other diabetics who had refused to be induced, without much luck. What I did discover was that while OB's across the board do generally recommend induction for diabetics, there seems to be no agreement as to when exactly that induction needs to be. People talked about being induced at 37, 38, 39, and 40 weeks.. absolutely no consensus or reasons WHY that date in particular was chosen. That soothed a smidge of my guilt over my decision. Again, what I was asking for was NOT out of the realm of reasonable requests.

I changed my decision daily. Friday came and went. One moment I couldn't handle the emotional stress any longer and I was ready to schedule the damn thing. The next I was angry at the doctors' for taking my decision away from me, along with everything I wanted in my birth and a lack of support for my choices or my autonomy as a patient. My gut always said that the induction was the wrong thing for both of us.

I guess in the end there were three things that helped change my mind and prepare me mentally for an induction. I had a long chat with a friend's sister, who happens to be a long time labor and delivery nurse. I learned that the statistics for an induction going to a C-section, while high, where not the 50/50 split I had thought they were - they were more around 30%. Which definitely made me feel better about my chances. I also learned a little more about the drugs used during the induction. I had been petrified of pitocin after my cousin had an induction using it. Her feelings were basically, "Sure, you can do natural childbirth! That's awesome! Oh, yeah, unless they use pitocin. Then forget it. That stuff's so nasty you don't have a chance and you wouldn't even want to think about it without drugs." Apparently, because there are a couple of drugs they use to get things started pre-pitocin, an induction didn't necessarily mean I'd need that either. And if I did, there were levels of pitocin and I could request starting at the smallest dose possible and move up very very slowly from there, to decrease the chance that the contractions would be too fast or too strong. So I could still have my natural birth, even with the induction. Honestly, I learned more about the induction in that one half hour conversation than my doctors gave me during the week long discussion and fight over it.

Secondly, I spoke to everybody I knew who had actually had an induction. I wanted to know what their experiences were, bad or good. I wanted to know how they looked back on their birth. What were the steps and pathways of decision making that their doctors' took in the process, and were they similar to mine? And, of course, did the one medical intervention lead to others, in the end? The resounding answer seemed to be no, in general. Most of my friends hadn't ended up with C-sections, and their interventions seemed to be based on their own decisions pre-delivery (like the use of an epidural). People tended to have a positive outlook on their birth experience overall, even if the induction wasn't a first choice.

Lastly, and probably most importantly, my amazing doula gave me some emotional exercises to work through some of the messy upheaval I was dealing with. What I discovered was that I depend a lot on authority figures' approval and support. Maybe that should have been obvious, right? What was obvious was that I was going to achieve neither in this specific situation. No matter what I did, I was never going to both gain their support and protect my daughter and achieve what I felt was best for her. I also didn't want to feel like I was making a wrong decision just to say "FU" to the doctor. And years later I wanted to be able to somehow explain myself to my daughter when she asks me, "Why did you risk that, Mom?" or "Why did you give in to them?" Mostly, I very badly wanted to bring my daughter into the world with feelings of excitement, joy, and peace. I felt like they had sort of ripped those away from me and replaced them with dread and resentment. I needed some resolution to those issues from within myself so I could be excited about my birth again. After I did all that prep, I came to a place where I was ok with the induction. Not "yippie" and excited about it by any means, but at least accepting enough to schedule it for Sunday night and feel good for the possibilities, and not absurdly angry at medical personnel.

So, I know - this is crazy long and I haven't even gotten to the actual birth yet. But I think it was important for me anyway, to hash through all the stuff that came first, because even now it has a huge impact on how I view everything that followed it.

Part two to follow later. :)

Miracle, revisited

As most of you know, my little bird arrived on the afternoon of August 27th.

I could easily sit and stare at her for hours.

Yes, I am sleep deprived.

Yes, I'm up at midnight. And 3 AM. And 5 AM.

I get absolutely nothing done during the day.

And I love every single stinking, spit-up covered minute of it.

Because she needs me.

And because we are so blessed to finally be a family.

The Safest Place

A friend wrote on her blog recently about risk. It's something I've been mulling over too lately, as I get closer and closer to Ms. B's delivery. There's always been risk involved in this pregnancy. Being "high risk", and what that really means and all it entails. Going back to the early days, and the fears we had over the risk of miscarriage. And going back even further than that, to some very dark days - the risks we took to become parents and the long road it took us down.

I'm listening to Geoerge Strait's "I Saw God Today" at the moment. I'm not a cryer, but it makes me tear up every time I listen to it now. Do I *get* that miracle a little more now?

I find that as I move closer and closer to the fulfillment of this dream of mine, I am becoming calmer. Perhaps more accepting of those unknown risks? More trusting that everything will work out exactly as it should. As I learned at last week's OB appointment, this belief in myself drove my doctor a little nuts.

Yup, we were back to arguing about the birth plan. Poor guy - I can see his point. He's a high risk OB. He's trained to see every possible disaster and plan for it. But he's not trained to see something from anyone else's point of view.

He says I need to "trust him".

So, then we come to a complete standstill - who do I trust? Do I trust myself, my body, my feelings, my education? Or this guy who is very educated and has MD behind his name? The desicions are hard when you know the OB really isn't a bad guy, and really believes in what he's telling you - that HIS plan is the best for you and your baby, and what do you know because you've never really done this before anyway?

The things I am NOT sure of, the risks that bother me, center around these questions I never seem to find the answer to. When do I let go of control and let others help me? When is it better for me to push for what I believe to be BEST for me and my baby, even if they may be unconventional?

I do believe in myself. I believe in my body's abilities, not its disabilities. I believe I deserve a smooth, easy, uncomplicated birth. (Thank you, Hypnobabies.)

In one of the Hypnobabies cd's, you create a "special safe place" that you go to help your relaxation, and you use it in pretty much all the hypnosis sessions. My safe place is a real spot, and one I go to daily - my little girl's room. I sit in the big comfy rocker, and just look around at her special space. The pretty blue walls, the painting her artist grandpa painted for her on the wall, the crib with her pretty birdie sheets all ready for her little head, the infant carrier in the corner.

How this could all turn out is such a big unknown. Birth, parenthood, life with baby in general. No gauruntees about any of it. I'm jumping into the abyss.

Right in the center of that risk is where I am in perfect happiness. In my baby's room, surrounded by reminders of the scary unknown, about the possibilities of imperfections, of the whirlwind around me and the battle for what is right for my baby, is the great irony. It's the place where I feel the safest.

Strawberry Extravaganza!

I love this time of year. Because in Michigan, it's still sort of spring.... Not that we haven't had a few 90 degree days, terrifying me with what's to come this summer... But for the most part, it's been pleasantly in the 70's this week. The farmer's markets are open! Even if it's only meager amounts of asparagus and radishes at the moment, it reminds me that the bounty of summer is yet to come. And sneaking into the farmer's markets this weekend were... the first, teeny, red, beautiful strawberries of the season!!!

Inspired by these little gems, a friend and I braved the muddy fields at a u-pick strawberry farm nearby. I quickly discovered that squatting and bending over while 7 months pregnant wasn't the brightest thing I'd ever attempted. In five minutes flat I was gasping for breath like a fish. I know people have told me (my husband included) that I have to slow down, that I have to quit pushing myself so hard for the time being. I find that really, really hard to accept. I'm not used to having to think about it. Usually, if I want to take a walk or a run, I do it. If i want to hike, I do it. If I want to clean my house (hahahaha, right), i just get it done. I hate waiting around to do something. Accepting the limitations of my body right now and even just doing things slllooooowwwweeeerrr has been hard. I honestly don't think about it being too much til I'm already at that point of exhaustion.

But in this case, there were strawberries at stake... and all the things that come with strawberries.... Strawberries and fresh whipped cream! Strawberry ice cream and frozen yogurt! Freezer jam! Regular jam! Pie! Strawberry - rhubarb crumbles! Strawberry vinegar!



So you see, I just couldn't let that strawberry field hold me back.

Ladies and gentlemen, I got on my hands and knees and crawled.

While not the proudest moment of my life, I did come back with 8 (!!) quarts of perfect berry goodness. I'm just glad there was no one else there to see me crawling through the mud. You do what you gotta do, folks.. :)

In baby news, things are going stellar. My body is sucking up huge amounts of insulin like a sponge, which the docs told me tends to happen after 24 weeks. A completely full pump reservoir lasts me about 2 days currently (a half full reservoir used to get me 3+). I have a full fledged bump, no longer able to be mistaken for a beer gut. (Yay! This actually took a lot longer than I expected.) Baby B is 2 pounds and 5 oz, and has fallen from the 90 to the 78th percentile for weight. Which, in our case, is good news! Oh, and she's completely gorgeous, of course. :) No bias here...

So, in honor of strawberry season:

Strawberry Orange Muffins

(From Cooking Light)

1 1/4 cups halved strawberries
3 tablespoons butter, melted
2 teaspoons grated orange rind
2 large eggs
1 1/2 cups AP flour
1 1/4 cups sugar
1 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp salt
cooking spray
2 tsp sugar



Preheat oven to 400.

Combine the first four ingredients in a blender or food processor, and process until just blended. Combine flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt. Add the strawberry mixture to the flour mixture, stirring until just moist. (This looked really dry to me for awhile - I ended up adding about a teaspoon of water to get things to mix.) Spoon batter into 12 muffin cups coated with cooking spray. Sprinkle with 2 tsp of sugar. Bake for 20 minutes or until muffins spring back when touched lightly in the center.

Makes: 12 muffins
Per muffin:
Calories - 184
Fat - 4 g
Carbs - 35 g

deflated

It's one of those days. In reality, it's been one of those weeks.

I'm tired. I'm tired of doctors, nurses, miscommunications, noncommunications. I'm tired of logging sugars, and meals. I'm tired of feeling not *listened* to.

I'm tired of diabetes.

I'm tired of basing pregnancy decisions around diabetes. I want to choose what is best for me, and what is best for my baby, because I've thought it through and the decisions fulfill a vision that I see for my daughter's birth. I don't want diabetes to play any part in that moment.

But it does. Of course it does. It always does. It's always there.

There are so many examples of this swirling around in my head right now. The first several occurred during one of my biweekly appointments with the endo last week. I saw a different endo this week - who am I kidding? The lack of any kind of continuity of care is my major issue with this clinic. I've never seen the same resident twice, and I rarely see the attending OB at all. Once I get used to a specific endo doc and what their expectations are, I see someone else, who has a completely different set of goals. Shouldn't the goals be clinic wide, so as not to confuse the patient this way?

Last week I was the perfect patient. Last week, my blood sugars were *too good*. As in, "I'm ok with you running a little higher so you don't go low."

This week, the endo pointed out that I'm not meeting the after meal goals. The ones I've NEVER been able to meet, even if I survive on salad alone. The ones that are the same for type 1's, type 2's, and gestationals. The exact numbers that a week ago were "just fine and not negatively affecting my baby at all." My fasting numbers were too high. Not out of range high, just not in the 90-100 area they want.

Ok. I can work with that. I like constructive criticism, especially if it helps me get tighter control. Just quit giving me different stories all the time, ok? Pick a goal and stick with it.

Not long after that, as I was leaving the clinic, another nurse from fetal echocardiography called me to remind me of my echo the next day. This test was basically a really detailed ultrasound of the baby's heart. She asked me a bunch of questions over the phone, so that I "didn't have to fill out all the paperwork the next day". After the basic type questions, she started asking me about my blood sugar control. "Well, my A1C is currently 5.9," I said, rather proudly. "Oh." She replied. "Well, that's...okaaaayyyy...... what do your fasting numbers look like?" So I, rather instantly deflated, recounted my earlier visit and the corrections made to help my fasting numbers fall into the range that new endo wanted them in.

And... then the litany began. "This is pretty uncontrolled," the nurse said to me. (PS, nothing sets me off quicker than suggesting that I'm "uncontrolled". It's basically saying to me that after all my hard work, you believe that I just don't care enough.) "With blood sugars like these, your baby's heart could have problems. We're basically looking for heart deformities that occur early on, as well as thickening in the wall of the heart caused by high blood sugar. Also, with sugars like these, the cardiologist will probably not be able to see everything she needs to see, and you'll most likely have to come back for another echo later on in the pregnancy."

Needless to say, I was in tears by the time I hung up the phone. This woman was (the way I heard it)saying that I was causing damage to my child's heart because I was ignoring tight control. Guilt trip much? First, I called my husband, who, as usual, can look at a situation logically and talk some sense into me.

"Are you sure she's not using some textbook guidelines that aren't really possible in real life?" he asked. "Or lumping you in with type 2/gestationals whose bodies work differently?"

Even so, what I didn't understand - how could she say these things to me when everyone in the endo/ob clinic tell me that I'm doing fine, aside from tweaks here and there? What new set of goals and expectations does SHE have for me? Why am I not clearly being told exactly what the expectations are? I'm ready to have a mental breakdown because they seem to change weekly.

I ended up calling the OB clinic and tearfully explaining to them what the echo nurse had told me. I explained that I was just getting too many mixed messages, and I needed ONE set of goals that I could feel confident in for me and the health of my child.

The OB clinic was pretty ticked at the echo nurse. First of all, apparently a 5.9 A1C means that your risk for fetal heart damage isn't ANY different than ANYONE ELSE'S. Secondly, even with tweaking, I had some of the best looking numbers in the clinic - and further more, the echo nurse had no right to even be asking me those questions. Endo and OB takes care of blood sugars. I'm where they want me. Her scare tactics were completely unwarranted and unbased.

In the meantime, this elevated a test I wasn't super concerned about to a major source of stress. Thanks a lot, Nurse Ratchet. I'm sure the stress was great for my baby. (My "positive pregnancy affirmations" went on loop on the car radio for awhile.)

The next day, after the echo, I have never wanted to fling test results in someone's face the way I wanted to do to her. The cardiologist found no evidence of any heart deformities, issues, or thickening. I heard her say the word "perfect" somewhere in there, too. And she said there was absolutely no need for me to come back later - she had seen everything she needed to see.

I refrained, but I really wanted to scream at the nurse that any damage done was due to her complete lies, rather than my so called "uncontrolled" blood sugars. Honestly, I wonder if she KNOWS what she is doing to people mentally? I know that scare tactics can help some people get back on track, but to use that method you really have to know your audience. Instead, she nearly caused me a psychotic break while I guilted myself into imagining all the things I personally had damaged in my baby's fragile, developing body.

Sigh. Although I guess all's well that end's well.... But the whole thing left me with such a bad taste in my mouth. People who are supposed to know what they are talking about don't. And no matter what, you can't change these folk's judgements and opinions.

This week's project was the "birth plan". Something that naturally should focus on things we want during the birth itself. It, to, turned unfairly d-heavy. First of all, I plan on trying for a natural birth. Not because I have anything against epidurals. Yup, you guessed it. It's because of that stupid disease again. Basically, diabetics have an absurdly high rate of C-sections. Why? Well, lots of reasons. Often we aren't allowed to go full term and are induced. Induction leads to more C-sections. Basically, I believe that a doctor is more prone to freaking out with any high risk patient, and jumps on any excuse to demand a C-section, whether or not it is really medically warranted. Anyhoo, basically I want to avoid ANYTHING that could cause me to have a C-section. So.. that leaves.. au naturel. So in some weird way, choosing a method other than that recommended for most diabetics is still allowing diabetes to guide the decision.

I want to be in control of myself, my birth, my baby, and my diabetes. I am afraid (and rightly so) of nurses ability to care for type 1's, their knowledge of type 1, and their reliance on flow sheets and blanket orders for "sliding scale" insulin regimens that DO NOT WORK for me as an individual. (And this is coming from a nurse. I hate to be that way, but it's true.) They generally don't trust that I know what works for me and my body, although I have kept up with this for 14 years. So I wrote in the plan that I wanted to test my own blood sugar, with my own meter, control my blood sugar during labor using my pump and CGM, and not be hooked to insulin and glucose drips. I don't even want an IV. I don't want them giving my child glucose solution for a low blood sugar at birth. I don't want to be forced into an induction, or continuous fetal monitoring.

And my doula - who I thought would be completely down with the self care empowerment thing - gently told me that all these things may not be acceptable for me as a high risk patient.

Deflated again.

How do I come to terms with my visions for a "moment", an experience of this great thing, and what the doctors insist on? And don't tell me that it doesn't matter how it happens, as long as she arrives safely. I know all that already. That doesn't mean I have to give all my choices away. No matter what happens that day, I just for *once* want diabetes to be in the background.

d news

So.. more odds and ends, it seems. Maybe that is just how my head is working these days.

We had a very long set of appointments about a week ago. Endo, OB, ultrasound, doula... I figure if you gotta drive as far as we do, you might as well pack it all in.

First the exciting things:

We are having a baby girl!

I'm totally psyched. I'm thrilled for frills and ruffles and girly clothes and a pretty birdie themed nursery (Thanks, pottery barn kids, for that new obsession). I love knowing that she's a she - she has a name, a little identity.

Even better - everything looks good, healthy, and normal. We saw five fingers, tiny toes, healthy kidneys, and a beautiful, four-chambered pumping heart. Next week we have a more detailed fetal echocardiogram that will take a closer look at her heart, and I'll keep my fingers crossed til then. But right now, she's a perfect teeny 9 ounces with the cutest little upturned nose. She's absolutely gorgeous.

And now confusing things -

During my endo appointment, I got some news I never expected to hear. "I wouldn't mind seeing your A1C a little higher," my doctor said thoughtfully.

Uh...... WHAT?

I mean, don't you want the lowest A1C possible? Hasn't that been what you've been telling me from day one? That if my A1C is in the "basically normal" range, my daughter has less likelihood of having congenital heart problems, malformations, kidney problems, being too big, or having blood sugar problems of her own after birth.. right?

And didn't I work my ass off for that 5.9 number?

My doctor explained that now that I was in my second trimester, all my baby's vital organs are formed. And things look good. Therefor, they are less concerned with malformations now. Now I get ultrasounds every two weeks, basically to carefully monitor the baby's size to make sure she's not getting too big. And, according to my doc, that is unlikely as long as my A1C stays under 6.6. "So you have some wiggle room," he said. And, although most type 1's are plagued with lows their first trimester, I had to be the odd ball, naturally. My insulin needs went up, up, up my first trimester and I fought a lot of highs. Now, in my second trimester, when hormones from the placenta normally set in to cause insulin resistance, I seem to be spending a lot of my time stuffing my face trying to get out of the 60's. So basically my doctor see it as a safety issue - if I can increase my numbers ever so slightly, I can still protect my baby without worrying about things like car accidents, or falling down stairs. Still, with a disease where all you ever hear is "lower! lower! lower!" I had a hard time wrapping my brain around this.

One the plus side, my doc did call my a "model patient". Yay! I'm a person who really relies on positive feedback, so after weeks of logging, logging, logging, and only ever hearing "yup, you're doing fine" - this was very important in motivating me to just keep on keeping on.

In other pregnancy notes -

I think I've entered that awkward pregnancy stage where it's a little hard to feel good about yourself. I don't care about the increasing numbers on the scale. I just want to be like all my pregnant friends- cute, skinny everywhere but their taut little bellies, and obviously, well, pregnant. Instead, my boobs each have their own zipcodes, and my growing belly could honestly be mistaken for a beer gut. I'm halfway through my pregnancy, and most people don't realize I'm pregnant. And yes, this is all pure vanity. I completely recognize that.

And while I'm whining, can I take a moment to complain about maternity clothes? You drop a friggin fortune on clothes you have to have because you can't fit into anything else and you are tired of wearing sweats, and you want, need to look and feel pretty again. Maternity clothes are expensive, you wear them for 6 months, and they are made RIDICULOUSLY cheaply. Pilling and stretching after one wash? Are you flippin kinnding me???? ok, rant over.

I still don't feel like I have any right to complain about ANYTHING. I have exactly what I have always wanted. All in all, I love being pregnant. I love feeling my baby kick. I love preparing for her arrival. And I am willing to wear a paper bag for 9 months if that's what it takes. Beating down that vain streak in me has been a little tough, though. Combating it relies heavily on listening to a "positive pregnancy affirmations" CD a friend loaned me. It's basically just positive statements you repeat to yourself to remove your negative mindtalk. Sounds like a lot of new-agey mumbo jumbo, but I find statements like "My pregnant body is radiantly beautiful" pretty helpful certain days. My other favorite statement on the CD is "My body is in perfect health - for me and my baby." It's hard to describe in writing, but there is a very important pause in the statement - "My body is in perfect health - FOR ME." My body may not be PERFECT, but THIS is what "perfect health" looks like for me, in this situation right here and now. And perfect health is not the same for me as it is for anyone else. I find that statement so empowering.

Odds and Ends

What a difference two weeks makes.

We've been in the new place a week now. Still getting things arranged and unpacked, but already we're SO. MUCH. HAPPIER. And not just because we are finished with the crazy landlord.

The house itself is amazing, if a little dated. I like to think of that as "old fashioned charm." Well, 70's era old fashioned charm, as opposed to little house on the prairie charm. It really is perfect for us - we have more room than before, and the house is chock full of hidden little storage areas and built-ins (some of which we had to conference with a group of people just to figure out what exactly it was, like the old school can opener in the pantry). My kitchen actually has enough shelving for my humoungous collection of cooking paraphenalia - a definite first of anywhere we've lived! There is a little trash chute next to the stove top that goes to a garbage can in the garage - absolutely brilliant! I actually have a pantry in this house, which is a huge plus. The baby's room is a good size - we can fit the furniture we've already bought in it. And our bathroom is so big, I feel like we have a whole wing to ourselves. The only negative comment I can make on the place in that the oven and stovetop are 60's era tiny. I own pans that are too wide to fit the oven. So no giant hams or roasted turkeys for me for the moment.

(Room for more random cooking supplies!!)

My handy cookbook shelf in the kitchen, for easy recipe access. And, no, this is not all of my cookbooks. :)

(And check out the awesome 70's bar. Love, love, love the wall paper back here. I look at it and feel the urge to put on some bell bottoms and polyester.)


It's hard to believe that everything managed to come together in the span of a week. I'm not gonna lie - it was a rough, rough week. Between the rental market being very tight right now, our ridiculous time table, realtors and landlords not returning calls, and then at the end of the week, my poor husband came down with the stomach flu - I was ready to pull my hair out. Or plot numerous ways to painfully torture the ex-landlord. To top it all off, Friday morning before the big move, my Dexcom broke. Normally not a big deal - you call the help line and they overnight you a new receiver. That is, as long as your current receiver is still under warranty.... and guess what? Mine wasn't. Which means I'd have to go through the long drawn out insurance approval process for getting a new dex, which could take weeks... or months. Have I mentioned how ABSOLUTELY DEPENDENT I am on the Dexcom? The idea of not having it at work, where I tend to run on the lower side anyway, petrified me. Plus, I would have no good blood sugar information on moving day - a day of lifting, pulling, running around, eating quick and easy and probably not easily countable things.... Yikes. Talk about crappy timing.

Anyway, I want to give a big shout out to the slew of people who showed up to help us out. Even more so because I felt a little useless, being unable to lift any of the boxes and such. It definitely made me feel like we are finally starting to have a little bit of a community here. Moving a town over, out of the cornfields and closer to where everyone else already is, has already added to that feeling immensely.

Back to the move though - it was one of the craziest things I have ever seen. The guys were moving furniture out as another friend and I were frantically dumping things willy nilly into suitcases - no order to it whatsoever. (I'm still paying for that in the unpacking phase. Where the heck are my plastic ware lids? And it took me a day and a half to find the suitcase with all my underwear, hidden in a closet.) Also, moving that quickly allows no time for thought about how you want to arrange and organize the new place... So when the poor guys come lugging in heavy furniture and ask, "Where do you want this?", I generally stood there looking dumb and saying things like, "Ummm... well... maybe.... gee, how much does that weigh?" So thanks for putting up with me, boys. I also had some fabulous girlfriends (pregnant and on no-lifting duty like me) who stayed at the new place and not only unpacked, but organized my kitchen and dining room shelves!!!!!! I am not the queen of organization - I would have ended up just throwing things in the shelves to get them out of sight. My friend, however, is a whiz at this apparently - I now have a very thoughtfully laid out kitchen that makes so much sense - I can actually get to everything I need without digging through drawers cursing. (Yes, I'm thinking of you, old spice drawer. DID I MENTION THE WORLD'S MOST GIGANTIC LAZY SUSAN THAT'S BIG ENOUGH FOR ALL MY SPICES? That's really saying something, if you are familiar with my spice collection. I got a lot of flack for that in the move... it took three bins to move them all.)

I am so amazed and so thankful to everyone and with how everything turned out. I simply can't say it enough. Once again taken care of and provided for. It honestly blows my mind.

So now I can move on to other things! Like baby news. Again, another area where I feel like things are just way too good to be possible or true, and I want to shout about how incredibly blessed I feel. I feel awesome. I never had the awful nausea and sickness my friends have been plagued with. The worst pregnancy symptom I can complain about is some seriously dry eyes (which, if I hadn't read about it on a pregnancy website, I'd have chocked up to allergies anyway). Things are going well from a diabetes standpoint. I made the drive to Ann Arbor for my biweekly appointment - an important appointment because the OB was going to evaluate whether or not I needed to start driving down weekly for check ups. And I suppose here is where I finally get an award for my type A personality - because I am so... well, anal, about sending in my blood sugars weekly and downloading the dexcom, he decided that not only do I not have to come in weekly.... we can stretch out my appointments to 4 weeks! Ah, less time in the car! Less money on gas! Sometimes it pays to be neurotic. (The flip side of that coin is when I start to notice a blood sugar pattern, I send in the numbers wanting the issues to be addressed right away, and no one calls me for three days. ACK! Drives me a tad bit insane.) Oh, and the other awesome D-related news? My last A1C - 5.9!!! I'm ecstatic. And let me give a quick kudos to my doctors for just a minute too - they are very much of the "eat healthy but don't drive yourself insane" mindset. Never once have they made even a single comment about the contents of my food diaries, even when I was prepared with explanations (pizza on moving weekend? Pastries? Ice cream?). This has had an amazing affect on my overall psyche... No judgements. Things happen. Blood sugars (and basals, coreection factors, and I:C ratios) change weekly. The most important peice is counting the carb correctly and covering with insulin accordingly. I've calmed down about the food issue a lot and am instead focusing on healthy nutrition for baby. One more stressor removed! We can eat out with friends and enjoy ourselves without freaking out about the consequences.

Some days are beautiful, like this one...

Other days I feel like I'm mountain climbing.



I'm starting to feel what I think are tiny little kicks... Which is strange when you don't know what you're really looking for... Is that gas? My stomach rumbing? A random muscle twitch? They don't come very often, but I find myself stopping...waiting...watching for them.

Next week is the big ultrasound. We've decided to find out what we're having... Mostly because I want to decorate a cute nursery and I find the gender neutral patterns... well, boring. But the more I think about it the more I like the idea. Picking out a name. Bonding with my child over that new identity. Part of me hopes that that might make this a little more *real* to me. I still have moments where I think, "Am I totally making this up??" I need the outside confirmation - and I still don't really look pregnant, so that confirmation can be hard to come by. (I find that a little odd, too. If I'm just barely shy of the halfway mark, shouldn't I start really showing???)

(Yes, that's a bump. Really.)

I'm stoked about getting another photo of the little one, too. One where he/she looks less like a gummy bear and more like... well, a baby! :)

Stress

I have every intention of writing a post dealing with the ins and outs of pregnancy and diabetes. I also have every intention of eventually posting another recipe on this so-called "foodie" website.

I've been momentarily sidetracked.

A call from our landlord at 4 pm Friday evening kinda flipped our world around for a little while.

Long story short - the house we have lived in for the past year has been "sold", and he wants us out. In 13 days. No questions asked. If we're not, he'll begin eviction proceedings.

I'm not going to focus on all the minutae in this whole ridiculous scenario, the legalities, yada, yada, yada. We've spent too much time and emotion this weekend on those things all ready.

Fact: if it is AT ALL possible for us to find a place that is move-in ready and be out of our place in that miniscule amount of time, I want to just do it. I'm tired of dealing with this guy and the crazy, unrealistic world he lives in. I want to be done with him.

Is this demand even possible?

We've spent all weekend fretting, worrying, laying multiple contigency plans, calling realtors, driving aimlessly around the little communites around us looking for rental signs, tossing and turning, dealing with the anxiety of an unrealistic time table, and fishing through craig's list for something appropriate for our family and safe enough that we'd want to bring a baby home there. (Not as easy as it sounds, when you live close to a prison and in a town that is ranked one of the top 10 most dangerous in the US).

I've lost track of who I've called, who I've emailed, what we've looked at where. Even while we understand that we aren't in a position to be picky, our few leads have turned to dead ends mostly due to the time table - "WHAT? You want to move in NEXT weekend????!!! This won't be ready till April 1st...."

The other thing I'm sick of hearing - "Why don't you just buy? You both have good jobs." If we had wanted to buy, if we were in a position to buy, we would have done it all ready. As it is, buying something in two weeks really isn't an option. So shut it.

I know everyone always says, "Stress is bad for the baby!" Stress has a way of reflecting itself in my blood sugar. After all day of driving around town and making phone calls saturday, a quick fingerstick turned up a shocking 280. Totally out of nowhere, and of course I had left the dexcom out of range so I never heard an alarm. See the feed-back loop set up here? Stress = high, which stresses me more as I imagine it hurting my child. Add in the likelihood of stress lowering your immunity and posibly making me sick, and sickness = higher blood sugar... and it's really a recipe for disaster. Oh yeah, and all that cortisol floating around my blood stream makes me crave sugar, chocolate, fried food, and grease. Again, not great for the ole numbers game.

So this morning, my husband and I piled back in the car to randomly drive some more in hopes of finding "the one". Both of us moody, sleep-deprived, emotionally charged, and anxious. After a less than productive day, as I found myself slipping further down an emotional hole, my husband turned to me and said, "Okay. Let's do a little attitude readjustment. We're in a shitty situation, yes. But we are so much luckier than so many other people who have found themselves in a similar place. We can afford to move. We can afford to put our stuff in storage for awhile, if we need to stay with friends for a while if we need more time to find a place. We can be a little pickier about the place we're looking for, even with the time crunch - we aren't forced into taking the first thing just because it's the only thing. We're going to be ok."

And that led me to remember the numerous other times we have found ourselves looking for a home. We have moved a lot - in the last few years we've been through this at least three times (although maybe not this drastically). And each time, I have had the same response - I get so upset, so anxious, so convinced that nothing appropriate is out there, I make myself sick over it. And every time, at seemingly the last moment, something seems to fall out of the sky that is exactly what we need. We are taken care of. We are provided for.

Why is my memory so short? Three times. Three prayers answered in sometimes crazy ways. Why do I still doubt?

It's time to have a little faith. Even if things don't end up as I planned, we will be better off at the end of all this. We will be better off for going through this together. And in the midst of this choas, I am still so blessed - with a husband who can point my attention to the things that really matter, who loves and defends his growing family. We are blessed with jobs that allows us the resources to find safe and appropriate housing, no matter how long that process takes. We are blessed with amazing family and friends who have offered us their own homes to crash in and their manpower to help us move (possibly twice!!). And we are blessed with a little life, who depends on his mommy to talk a breathe, calm down, and take care of herself during this whirlwind. I guess that's probably good practice for later. :)

It's really, really amazing what a few months can do to your whole outlook.

I can't really remember a time when I have felt so blessed. As corny as it may sound, there is a background tune of happiness to my days now - a complete 180 from just a couple months back.

We found out I was pregnant a few days before Christmas. The most perfect Christmas present ever. A little, happy secret just the two of us knew.

I just officially hit the 13th week mark. Yay, second trimester! This was full of good things for us - a collective sigh of relief from my husband and I as we past the point of possible miscarriage. Starting to tell our families and friends. Realizing just how big an outpouring of love and support we have, and that our baby will have.

I have been so lucky with a relatively easy pregnancy so far. Or maybe, because we waited for so long and wanted this so badly, the normal pregnancy symptoms people complain about became just another source of joy to us. Which sounds crazy, I know - but it's absolutely true. For my husband, especially - because to him, those symptoms meant things were ok. That everything was progressing normally. We would sit together on the couch as my nausea prevented me from cooking dinner (because my "morning sickness" was always in the early evenings) and be excited because I felt gross. :) If I was feeling good and energetic, I would hear, "Is everything OK??" with a little frantic undertone.

Today was the first day I couldn't button my jeans. But I don't look pregnant.... I just look... well, chubby. :) But I'm ok with that, too. For once, I actually think it's kinda funny and endearing. Sweats are definitely my friend these days. Oddly enough, it's actually the lack of shirts that fit me that's sending me out to the maternity stores with a friend this week. Darn fitted shirts. :)

The diabetes part of things has been a bit of a roller coaster, both from a numbers angle and an emotional angle. Finally, after guilt-ridden tear fest over post prandial blood sugar numbers, my husband made a good point. "Don't get so wrapped up in the diabetes stuff that you forget to enjoy being pregnant." Well said, baby. And that's definitely not to say that I'm not trying. That I'm not obsessively poking my fingers and adjusting, adjusting, adjusting. That I'm weighing everything that goes into my mouth and doing my best not to SWAG bolus. But my husband is a pretty smart guy - he knows if left to my own devices, my type A personality will drive myself batty analyzing the numbers and then never feeling like they are "good enough". So at some point, it is in my (and my baby's) best interest just to stop the constant flow of worry, let it go, trust that everything will go as it should, and just be IN this beautiful, incredible, amazing moment.

Miracle

I have a lot I want to say about this, obviously. There is so much rolling around in my head, I hardly know where to begin.

But for now, just this -

Pure Joy.

My Awesome Dad

I am just recently back from a trip home. I love going home, and yes, I make that 5 1/2 hour drive willingly rather too often. Any excuse is good enough for me. My latest is a fun one though - my dad and I have been taking some cooking classes together, which has been an absolute blast. This one was "Spanish" themed - lots of sherry vinegar, garlic, roasted red peppers, and paprika on the ingredient list. Good stuff.

I definitely am, and always have been, a daddy's girl. Ever since my dad retired a couple years back, we have had a morning tradition when I'm at home. We head down to the local Starbucks, order our lattes, and sit for an hour or two - just talking. I absolutely adore this routine of ours - I get to hear all about my dad's painting and art classes and his latest trips camping out west. And my dad gets to learn a little about my life, and a lot about diabetes.

When I was diagnosed with type 1, I was two months away from turning 19. Two months away from leaving for college, and living on my own. My pump was a rushed delivery and then a crash course in learning to use it. From day 1, I was in control of my health outcomes. I guess because of the timing of everything, my parents never really absorbed the diabetes memos. They knew vaguely what it was, and that it was bad. But they never had to stick my finger, or give me an insulin injection, or figure out a carb ratio, or learn to carb count like so many parents of diabetics do. So until recently, they were really still in the dark about the realities of my chronic disease, and what it entails.

Over our morning coffee, my dad discovered all about my CGM and how it works. I think he was really blown away by the technology. We talked about the auto-immune part of diabetes, and how that is different than type 2. And he learned how another of our shared activities, running, isn't so cut and dry for me - it takes a lot of planning and testing and replanning.

And I'm excited that he now understands so much more about me.

Who's complaining about an A1C?

I just had my all my regular three month blood work drawn. Along with that dreaded measuring stick, the A1C.

My A1c result was 6.3.

I should be ecstatic. That's a really great number. Anything under 7 is good control, and anything under 6.5 is pretty stellar. (A normal A1C for a nondiabetic is around 5.)

I'm stressing over decimal points. At this point, I really, really want to be at a flat 6. Decimal by decimal, I seem to be creeping up again, even with my new initiatives of measuring everything and watching what I eat like a hawk.

One of my friends awhile back wrote a great blog post about measuring sticks, and how women especially are always comparing themselves to others and finding themselves lacking. This idea is stuck in my head today as I compare myself to other diabetics. As if diabetes is a contest to be won.

I know I have said this before, but again I am struck by what a judging disease this is. Doctors judging you by your numbers. You judging yourself by those numbers too, and how you stand next to other members of this community. Judging yourself constantly by that piece of pizza you ate, feeling guilty over it. Misinformed people judging you over your food choices as well. Worrying, worrying, worrying, that none of this will be enough to ward off eye disease. Kidney disease. Heart disease. Vascular problems. Causing damage to someone else, to your family.

And then, when you get great results, when you see your hard work paying off..... It's ...still...not....good enough.

Reveries on Pizza and Ice Cream

Have you ever noticed that the minute someone tells you you can't have something, that is the second you start to crave it unbearably? Or, the minute you tell yourself something is off limits, it's all you can think about. Of course. Everyone in the world has noted this phenomenon, especially around this time of the year, a time of resolution making. A time of becoming "better versions" of ourselves. Personally, I admit that I am a person of very little will power. That's why, in general, it is far better for me to have nothing that is off limits. My motto has always been, for the most part, everything in moderation (except, of course, those absolutely ridiculous brownies my friend made that I COULD NOT stop eating.. But I digress.).

Well, even with moderation in mind, I have been doing some diet overhauling lately. Not in terms of a resolution, per se, but really just in search of some stellar blood sugars. A worthy pursuit to start off the year. Anyway, one easy way to quickly and markedly lower my blood sugar numbers is for me to get rid of anything difficult to carb count, or anything that I tend to "guesstimate" on. The more exact I can count my carbs, the easier I can predict the insulin I need to cover the meal and my blood sugar response afterwards. In my particular diet, the big change that this meant was to really limit the amount that I go out to eat. Ok, no big deal. A good excuse to try out some new recipes at home. And really who am I kidding? Sans going all the way to Ann Arbor, there aren't a lot of restaurants around here that really excite me. This also means that things like french fries and pizza are pretty much out. These two foods are really an achille's heel to me. Because of their fat content, I always have to give more insulin than that amount of carb would normally call for. But how much more? And how to deliver it? All at once? (Doing this runs the risk of going low an hour after eating, as the fat slows down digestion yet the insulin is already working in your blood stream.) A square wave bolus, where my pump delivers the *hopefully* right amount of insulin over a specified time? But how long does it really take to fully digest that pizza? Or I could do a dual wave bolus, where part of the insulin is given right away while the other part is given over a time frame. But that just leads to more questions for me: How do I break up the insulin amounts? Do I choose 70% now and 30% over a few hours? Or vice versa? Over three hours? Over 6 hours? And then there is the last method, the one I have had the closest amount of success with, where you give yourself the actual insulin dose for the carbs consumed, all at once, and then increase your basal rate to accomodate the fat content - so, let's say, a temporary basal rate of 135% for 6 hours. Honestly, just writing all this down makes my brain hurt. I never was much of a math guru. Afterwards is usually still a crapshoot, too, taking meter readings for the next 6 hours trying to see if you got it right - which, more often then not, I then spend making corrections one way or the other. So you see, it's complicated. Can you really blame me for saying goodbye to pizza?

Now I know there are those of you out there that COULD NOT LIVE without pizza. It seems like it's everyone's favorite food. Easy, cheap, cheesy, comforting goodness. But me? I've always liked pizza, don't get me wrong. But I just don't seem to fawn over it like some of my girlfriends do. I don't really argue the merits of this crust over that, or this pizza house compared to the other local joint. But really, if I was only ever a fair weather fan to begin with, and I only ever ate pizza at the urging of a group of friends anyway, and then to have to deal with all of the blood sugar repercussions on top of that? Just not worth it, in my opinion.

So I gave it up.

And of course, that's when the craving set in. The weirdest, oddest craving for a food item I have hitherto not cared one iota about. Literally, the idea that I couldn't have it meant that everytime a pizza hut commercial came on TV, I was drooling like Pavlov's dog. (And yes! Pizza Hut, of all places. Of all the chain pizza houses, I especially despise Pizza Hut! Yet, here they have me firmly in their grasp.) I want ooey, gooey, cheese falling off the end, grease pooling on the top pizza. What has come over me???!!!!

I lasted about 4 weeks before caving to psychology. At first I thought, how about a good pizza stand in? Something enough "pizza-like" to get this itch out of my system? I went for the Lean Cuisine pepperoni pizza. It definitely doesn't qualify as "real", but it tastes pizza-ish, and while it's not grand on the carb scale (about 56 grams in one personal size), it definitely beats all the guess work of the real thing.

Guess what?

It didn't cut it. No where near. So, all I obtained out of this whole excercise was 56 grams of carb in one sitting plus a still unabated need for cheesy-tomato-grease.

Of course, as fate would have it, the very next day on one of my numerous Ann Arbor trips, I found myself at a Costco. And this is where I reveal just how low my taste in pizza is, because of all the good pizza out there, I really love the Costco food court's pizza. Ridiculous. Embarrassing. Yeah, I know. And I caved. I got a gigantic, steaming, bigger than the grease-stained paper plate peice of goodness. I fought with the mental math. And I scarfed that sucker down within 10 minutes.

Of course, after all that comes the myriad of reasons why I didn't want to eat the pizza in the first place. First, it hit my stomach like a lead weight, that sat there for HOURS. Then, of course, the guilt set in. And of course, this was more than just "you said you weren't going to eat that" kinda guilt. This was true dia-guilt. As in being glued to your dexcom the rest of the afternoon, eyeing the screen and the trend graph marches ever upwards and you panic because you have crushed your commitment to good glucose control. Ok, looking back, I can see I was just being slightly dramatic. I did crash low and then have a rebound high as the pizza worked it's way through my system - but all in all, it wasn't a major high, never even getting over 170, which for pizza, is a flat-out miracle. So the whole experience brought me back exactly to where I started - learning the beauty of moderation. I had the "off limits" food and got that craziness out of my system. And while I won't swear off pizza again, I can't really see myself indulging any time soon - with the clear memory of blood sugar panic combined with the gross feeling of too much grease right in the forefront of my mind.

So that was a very long diatribe on a food I don't care that much about, in theory. Now comes something a little trickier - a food that I do care an awful lot about. A food that I LOVE.

Ice Cream.

I adore it. I can eat it straight out of the carton (in fact, I think it tastes better that way). I can eat it in winter during a snowstorm with negative windchills. I can (and for me, the queen of variety, this is a very big thing) eat it every, single day.

While not as difficult to carb count as pizza is, given almost all nutritional information is listed on the side of the packaging, ice cream has it's own challenges. Such as the fact that even with it's substantial amount of fat, it's a pretty concentrated source of sugar, meaning it raises blood sugar pretty intensely and quickly. And heck, if I'm going to clean up my eating habits, why not clear house entirely?

Now, I'm smart enough to know that there is NO FLIPPIN WAY I am giving up ice cream for good. That is just not happening. But I got to thinking, for the time being, was there a way I could make ice cream a little healthier? A little easier on my carb sensitive system?

Of course, the starting place of this question lands you squarely at, "How bout sorbet?" I like sorbet. But it lacks the richness, the creaminess, and that satisfying mouthfeel of ice cream. And honestly, it still contains quite a bit of sugar - often more than it's ice cream counterpart.

My answer fell into my lap while eating one of my (other) favorite snacks - plain greek yogurt and fruit. Wait a minute here. If I could make my own plain frozen yogurt, it would have less sugar than ice cream, plus be more satisfying than sorbet. Not too mention an added bonus - all the extra protein from the greek yogurt will act to slow down the sugar hitting my bloodstream! Add my own fruit for some fiber, and I see a win-win-win situation!

Now, duh, I know that frozen yogurt places have been doing this for years. But I have no pinkberry type places around me. Mid-michiganders are certainly not the type to pay 4+ dollars for something that could qualify as healthy. A hunt through local grocery stores revealed that no one sold *plain* frozen yogurt. (Flavorings usually equal more sugar, thus negating the whole plan.)

So that is how, in the middle of a snowy afternoon in January, I found myself dragging out the ice cream maker. (Shout out to my absolutely awesome girlfriend who just happened to get me one for my birthday back in August!)

Now, of course, I wanted the absolutely easiest recipe that yielded smooth, but tangy and distinctively yogurt-y flavor. I was not about to stand over a stove cooking eggs yolks for this. I'm just too darn lazy. And let me tell you friends, this was it. Three ingredients, and close to zero effort on my part led to some amazing yogurt that pinkberry would be jealous of. And I can mix in strawberries, peaches, raspberries, whatever and be free of dia-guilt!

I found this recipe on the internet, and I am sad to say, that I accidently closed the window before noting the website name. I feel horrible about that because I like to give credit where credit is due.

Homemade Frozen Yogurt

3 cups whole milk greek yogurt - * a couple of notes here. Yes, you do want full fat. And yes, you do want the thicker greek version to cut down on steps. If you use low fat yogurt, your finished product will have a thinner texture, and texture is a major thing I was going for here. And if you use regular yogurt, you will need to start with 6 cups and strain it in cheesecloth over a bowl to drain the extra liquid off. See? Just use the greek style where that is already done for you.

2/3 cup sugar (you can use up to 3/4, but i found 2/3 to be perfect and still let the flavor of the yogurt to shine.)

1 teaspoon vanilla

Yup. That's it. Most ice cream recipes aren't even this simple. Just combine all three ingredients until well blended and then park it in the refrigerator for 1 hour. Then pour it in your ice cream maker and flip it on. 30 minutes later and voila! Tasty treat. Eat as it is if you like a more soft serve consistency or pack it up into the freezer for a few hours to let it ripen. Then let the creativity of toppings begin!

According to my calculations, this makes a yogurt that has 28 grams of carb in 4 ounces, but with the added bonus of 4 grams of protein. This is an exchange I can live with!