Olof and I dragged ourselves out of bed bright and early this morning to go to what was probably the most pointless doctor’s appointment ever. A couple of weeks ago, at my one and only prenatal appointment to date (and that was only an intake, not a “real” appointment), I told the midwife that I didn’t want to take the glucose tolerance test, particularly this early on. First, that drink is nasty, and the mere thought of swilling it down after a twelve-hour fast is enough to make my stomach churn unpleasantly. Second, this is my fifth pregnancy and I’ve been overweight for every single one of them with nary a problem. Finally, gestational diabetes generally doesn’t rear its ugly head until much, much later in pregnancy, and if there’s any indication of potential problems when my sixth or seventh month rolls around, I’ll reconsider my stance on taking the accursed test.

Anyway, upon hearing my refusal, the midwife booked me in for an appointment with a doctor, presumably thinking that I’d be swayed by the big guns. So Olof and Brynja and I left the house shortly after eight o’clock this morning for what turned out to be a ten-minute meeting with a slight, soft-spoken, bespectacled doctor who surely was ten years my junior — not a powerhouse of persuasion, in other words — in which she reiterated the healthcare providers’ position and I reiterated my own, and we agreed, slightly testily, to disagree.

Then we left and went grocery shopping.