But then sometimes I do.

And yesterday I got official word that I have Gestational Diabetes. Glucose test = F.

Now I have to eat small meals and regulate how many grams of carbohydrates are in each. The plus side is that basic ice cream, though full of sugar, doesn’t have a load of carbs. AND, eating said ice cream at 9pm for my late night snack is actually alright.

No, I’m not gonna go crazy and ice cream my way through the rest of this pregnancy. But I believe in celebrating good news.

So along with ice cream, Justin went out last night and bought several other items that can serve as great snacks and more. I’m not a regular snacker. I was one of those raised to believe that snacking is bad, very bad. So the news of  having to eat smaller meals and snacks was a bit much. Almost half a day into this new regimen, we’re doing alright. But we weren’t yesterday, “we” being Me, Myself, and I…

As I drove home from my diabetes training (which I initially thought would be akin to going to driving school after having driven recklessly…which I’ve never had to do but view as a somewhat embarrassing slap on the wrist that you forget about in a few weeks), I gave God a piece of my mind. A thick piece. You see, I didn’t think I actually had diabetes, I just thought the 9pm cheesecake consumption did me in on test day and that when I told the diabetes team about it, they’d redo the test and find that I’m just fine. But no, the cheesecake actually didn’t have the power to do me in. A properly functioning system would have had the power to handle the cheesecake. In fact, plain cheesecake (like what I had) is another acceptable late night snack. But I digress.

The diabetes counselor was full of jokes, not ridiculous jokes but the sort of sarcasm that’s right up my alley and helped take the edge off our meeting. I didn’t cry though I thought I would.

Like I said before, I don’t fail tests. And this isn’t the first time I’ve taken the glucose test. I had concluded that my success was due to my healthier eating habits, healthier than the other women who’d also taken the test and had failed while I passed. Twice. I figured it wasn’t an overnight thing, that it must be about longterm food consumption choices. And I was, obviously, making wiser choices. Go me! (side eye)

Something’s different this time around. My body isn’t processing as it used to or I’m eating differently or both.

And the tears welled up while talking with the dietician (who also, thankfully, has a persona I jive with). As she showcased possible meal combos with her plastic food items and as I wrote out my primary goal (carb counting) for this new phase of life, I almost said, “Don’t mind me if I have a moment.” But there was no eye leakage. There was, however, a crazy amount of emotion running through my blood. And when I talked to God later on, I held nothing back, including the tears.

As I type, there are 39 minutes left on my timer, 39 minutes before I have to prick my hand and test my blood. It’s a breeze compared to injecting Lovenox–trust me. But every reminder that I’m imperfect kinda gets to me from time to time. Some of you have embraced your imperfect selves. I’m not on your level. This is now another thing I have to surrender daily to the Lord who loves me enough to patiently walk through this with me.

I wrestle with surrender–the 100% kind. I can do 75% quite well. That remaining 25% is all me, all drive, all self-reliance. And that percentage seems to increase with age. The surrender is, so often, more theory than practice.

But wonder of wonders! I’ve been processing this very thing lately in very intentional ways. During a recent retreat time, I wrote a ton about it, where it comes from and more. There’s something golden about a “can do” attitude until it starts to confuse and break you. Independence is beautiful until it acts more like “I don’t need any help” and then morphs into “I need so much help but have no idea where to begin.” Eventually, it becomes, “I can’t” and “I quit” and just like I don’t fail tests, I don’t quit.

I did quit a summer job many years ago. The boss was impossible, the work load ridiculous. And then I quit another that same summer. Again, ridiculous work, the closest I’ve come to sweat shop labor. But I didn’t quit trying to work and soon found a job that I liked and that liked me. I don’t do lazy. I couldn’t allow myself to sit around my parents’ house watching TV all summer long.

I tell my 2-year-old who’s so often on the brink of quitting (oh toddlers!), “We always try.” I mean it.

So here I am, now 7 minutes away from my third glucose test of the day. I’ve accepted this particular failure. I’ve wrestled (and will continue to wrestle) with surrender. And I won’t quit.

(I share all this because it’s cathartic and because, just maybe, one of you needs some encouragement found in these words. I’m honestly not fetching for diabetes tips. I’m thankful for the health team God’s provided which includes a husband who knows how to shop for groceries and cook good food. Amen. And an OB whose eyes glisten with mischief. We’ll be alright.)