It's that time of year again for the annual Burns-Hogge Parisian Thanksgiving Potluck! For the third year in a row, we have hosted turkey dinner at our apartment, and this time managed to squeeze in 16 adults and a 3-month old. This was our biggest Thanksgiving potluck dinner yet (we were 14 and an infant last year). Turns out this may actually be our physical capacity of seated people. Our turkey - Teddy - was a delicious French bird who was accompanied by some seriously good sides and excellent pies, including a killer pumpkin pie that was flown in overnight from the US! That's going to be hard to top next year. Unfortunately, all of the photos I took during the dinner itself have mysteriously vanished from my phone, but I did manage to capture half of our pre-dinner table and our first few guests arriving for cocktail hour in the living room I've been looking forward to wearing my shirt for the evening since my Mom brought it over from the US last month. Unless we cook another turkey for Christmas, this may have been it's big moment to shine. The little baby Hogge booties also made their appearance for a photo shoot, as did my breakfast of champions this morning: pumpkin pie, pecan pie and a steaming hot mug of coffee. Another successful Thanksgiving dinner in the books!
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So technically the third trimester of pregnancy starts at week 28, but I'm a bit late on the post here so you're getting my 29 week photo. Which seems appropriate given the size of the little one being compared to an acorn squash, and today being Thanksgiving in the US. All is still going great with my pregnancy. I have really been extremely lucky throughout in terms of no real complications. Other than a wriggly acorn squash attached to my stomach, the biggest signs of pregnancy I have had so far are (in no particular order):
My doctor recommended that I start teleworking one day a week to cut down on the transport time to and from work, which I've now started to do on Wednesdays. Also starting next week, I will start driving to work instead of taking public transportation, which is normally totally fine, but the bus has been a bit unreliable recently and the metro is horrible during rush hour. The additional challenge of being 7 months pregnant in the winter is that my coat is so big, people often can't tell I'm pregnant so don't offer me a seat (which is actually very much needed these days). On the flip side of the coin, Michael and I have both been feeling the little guy moving around in my stomach like an acrobat throwing his own dance party at the best nightclub in town. There is NO mistaking the kicks these days, which are starting to turn into being able to differentiate limbs from one another. He's currently hanging out sideways, with his head towards my right side and his feet on the left. Feeling him move is one of the most amazing experiences of my life, and to get to share it with Michael is beyond joy. To be living in France while pregnant is to be constantly visiting the lab for some sort of blood or urine test. Maybe this is also true in the United States, but since I have not had the pleasure of that experience, all I have to go by is the French approach, which seems highly excessive. This is particularly the case for someone like me who had suffered for years from major needle anxiety and the strong opinion that blood rather belongs in than out of my veins.
The pregnancy-related blood letting started when I was undergoing infertility tests and treatment, and has only increased since I actually became pregnant. One of the main things they test for at the beginning is whether or not you have been exposed to toxoplasmosis, which is a disease you can catch from a parasite that is transmitted through undercooked meat, soil, or cat poop (yes, seriously - these are the three main categories). In healthy adults, a toxoplasmosis infection can either go asymptomatic, or will cause mild flu-like symptoms. But when you get the toxo while pregnant, it can result in a severe congenital infection with "ocular and neurologic damage" to the little one. While in the US around 1 or 2 cases of congenital toxoplasma occurs for every 10,000 children born, in France the rate jumps to up to 16 in 1,000 cases. So they take it quite seriously here and test pregnant women who are "toxo-negative" (like me) every month. After receiving a slew of orders for blood tests in recent months, they all start to blend into one another and become more or less routine. In 2016, I have become a needle warrior. This is not to say that I am perfectly happy to trot to the lab once or more often each month, but I have learned to tolerate the process, and no longer feel like I might black out from the physical and mental anguish. However... my most recent encounter with the lab has been anything but smooth sailing. I am at the stage in my pregnancy where I am required to take a glucose test to check for gestational diabetes. The prescription I received last month from my midwife included the glucose test - along with I kid you not at least 10 other blood tests. This was a comprehensive sucker! The midwife told me that the glucose test required me to show up at the lab 1.5 hours after having eaten breakfast. Ok, fine, I can do that. On the day I show up for the test, I was highly confused when the intake nurse asked me if I was à jeun. This word was not in my vocabulary, so I asked her to clarify. Fasting. Was I fasting? No, of course not! I ate 1.5 hours ago like I was told to. The nurse explained to me that the test first requires a fasting blood sample, then I am sent away to eat breakfast (presumably at a nearby cafe?), and return 1.5 hours later to take a second blood sample to measure my sugar levels. In this case, I would need to return on another day when I had not already eaten. Strike one. Later that same week, I had my final appointment with my normal OBGYN before the big handoff to my delivery OBGYN, who gave me a second prescription for a glucose blood test, as well as an order for my toxoplasmosis screening for the end of the month. That following Saturday, I returned to the lab à jeun with both glucose test orders. The intake nurse told me that the new prescription was in fact a different test than the one ordered by my midwife. Both required fasting, but the one from my OB was a more thorough test to screen for diabetes. To me the obvious choice was to go with the more thorough test. This one includes a fasting blood test to start, followed by a big glass of sugar water on an empty stomach, to be followed by a second blood test after 60 minutes and a third and final test after 120 minutes, all to track how the body is processing sugar. So when I agreed with the nurse we would go for the more thorough test, she apologized and said I would have to come back the following week as I had arrived at 9am, and the last pickup of the day was scheduled for 10:30am, so there wasn't enough time to do the whole test. And of course the lab is not open on Sundays, so I would have to wait. Strike two. The next week was an extremely busy time at work with committee meetings, so my next opportunity to return to the lab was over a week later on the following Monday. I woke up at 6am to a serious rain storm brewing outside in the cold dark morning. I got dressed and hopped in an uber to arrive at the lab by 7:15am so that I had enough time to do the test without missing too much work. When I got to the counter, the nurse took my paperwork and asked if I had brought the glucose. Um... what? Why would I purchase glucose? Neither my doctor nor the nurse I had spoken to on the last attempt had told me I needed to BRING MY OWN GLUCOSE!!! To top it off, pharmacies don't open until 8am, so I would have to spend a good 45 minutes in the already-packed lab waiting room until the pharmacy down the street opened. So instead, I did what every rational pregnant woman would do who has had it up to HERE with the total lack of clarity and instructions for this stupid test that I wasn't thrilled do do in the first place. I raced out of the lab, opened my umbrella, and had a good sobbing cry in the dark, cold 7:30am rain while walking to work. Big fat strike three. And so it came to pass that I found myself yesterday returning to the lab in the wee hours of the morning to finally fulfill my glucose destiny. Packets of glucose in hand, I presented myself to the counter. All checked out, and I was soon sitting with a nice young phlebotomist who asked for my 75 grams of glucose so that she could stir up the sugar water. When I handed her the two packets of 50 grams of glucose the pharmacy sold me, she looked at me and said the words I knew were coming deep in my heart... "I'm sorry madame, we do not have a scale here to measure the powder, so you will need to go and purchase a different packet from the pharmacy for the correct volume." Noooooooooooooooooo!!!!! I am positive that a look of sheer desperation and panic appeared on my face, which was enough for her to go check with the head nurse on duty, who THANK GOD agreed that they would eyeball the measurements. I may have otherwise had a total nervous breakdown. Two hours, three blood tests and one urine sample later, I left the lab. Not with a feeling of success, because I don't think that word can be applied after three failed attempts and a few near public meltdowns. But with a sense of overwhelming relief that it was finally over. Until next week, that is, when I will return once again with my new doctor's orders to screen for the good old toxoplasmosis. It never ends. For the past two years, we have celebrated Michael's birthday in Belgium and Switzerland, respectively. Apparently we have been trying to make up for lost time by taking him to as many European countries as he's been to in Asia. I don't think we are there yet, but we're getting close. This year, however, we were both too tired from insane work schedules (M just got back from Peru) and human-growing to do much planning in advance of his birthday. So instead we opted to take the new car out for it's first road-trip to the French countryside, away from all of the chaos and hustle of the city. We found a gite (furnished holiday home) about 3 hours drive from Paris in the middle of nowhere, complete with wood-burning fireplace and chickens running around the yard. Thanks for the eggs, ladies, but you're still not coming inside! We had never been outside of the city at this time of year, so were really surprised to see the French countryside puts on its own show of fall colors - maybe not to rival the Northeast at this time of year, but enough to make us feel a bit closer to home. These types of trips always make us long to have our own place in the country to escape from the pace of life in Paris. Maybe one day.
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AuthorBecause why not get married and move to Paris to really kick off your thirties? Archives
December 2016
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