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In Which the Husband Complains about Gestational Diabetes

Sure, Julie has to stab herself with a needle five times a day, but think about my pain.

Whatever happened to the days when we would think nothing of knocking off a whole box of pasta (cooked, thank you, with a little olive oil and parmesan) together in front of the TV? Now Julie is counting every grain of rice on her plate, and I must soldier on alone to maintain our household carb consumption. I'm not sure I can do it.

Not that I'm unwilling to try — put a half dozen bagels or a pound of candied ginger on the corner of my desk and they'll be gone by morning — but there's a limit to what a guy can do.  Especially when I can't rely on a partner to consume the other half of the batch of sourdough rolls coming out of the oven or the bag of chocolate whatnots from the grocery store. Even the kick of feeling noble and protective as I sample the latest batch of holiday cookies eventually palls.

Worse yet, as I gird myself for yet another assault on the starch mountain, I feel a certain sense of guilt. Perhaps as I dollop the vanilla ice cream over a thick slice of freshly-baked apple pie, I should be a little less exuberant about how wonderful it's going to taste and how I'm going to enjoy every last flaky, creamy bite and savor the delicious fragrance rising from the place.

We're counting the weeks.