In less than a week I'll be giving birth to what I hope is a healthy and beautiful and not too terribly enormous baby girl. I'll also be saying goodbye to gestational diabetes. Of all the possible complications that stalk a pregnant woman, GD is far from the worst. It's usually temporary, it's generally painless, and most critically, it's not a terrifying and permanent birth defect. Most babies born to mothers with gestational diabetes are fine, if a bit larger than their fellow nursery guests. While some women require daily insulin to manage it, gestational diabetes is often controllable by diet alone. And what a diet it is.

Think meat. A lot of meat. And fat. And very, very limited carbohydrates. My typical GD breakfast consisted of two eggs, a couple of slices of Canadian bacon, a glass of whole milk, and a slice of low-carb raisin toast with butter. And this is at five a.m., hungry or not. On this diet, whole milk is mandated, but a bowl of cereal is as toxic as rat poison. No pasta, chips, pretzels, cookies, ice cream, candy, or orange juice. And in my case, no fruit. Fruit made me fail my blood tests - the ones I had to administer myself four times a day. Prick a finger, bleed, and wait thirty seconds to discover whether or not you've eaten enough tuna to balance out the fifteen grams worth of carbohydrate in your six whole wheat crackers. And no cheating! Cheating could jack up your blood sugar, causing the baby to grow too rapidly, and guess who has to give birth to that gargantuan? Why, you do! Consider this: given what we know about how babies enter the world, is a box of Milk Duds really worth trying to push out an eleven pounder? I didn't think so either.

But a girl can't live on steak alone. Especially when she's pregnant. You get cravings, and not for celery or turkey jerky. You crave ice cream and potato chips and pizza and real lemonade and chocolate-covered Oreo cookies. Try thwarting a craving for pound cake with a pork chop. (Note: it can't be done.) Desperate for a root beer float one hot June evening, I mixed diet root beer with milk and ice cubes and, like a desert nomad crawling deliriously toward a mirage of water, made myself believe that it was the real thing. I've eaten countless sugar-free Popsicles and have even resorted to smuggling cups of sugar-free Jello into the multiplex. At a recent screening of Pirates of the Caribbean, those seated around me buried their snouts in troughs of popcorn while I slurped up a room-temp sugarless orange Jello. If it weren't for Johnny Depp, I wouldn't have made it through the movie.

Despite all of the meat and monotony, I've come to realize that gestational diabetes has been a blessing in disguise. I haven't gained much weight with this pregnancy - exactly half the poundage I packed on with Olivia. I've eaten healthier meals, and I've felt better for it. My baby has a strong heartbeat and all signs point to her robust good health. According to a recent sonogram, she does have rather a large head - Smurflike, almost - but then, so do her parents. That noggin may be our doing and totally unrelated to gestational diabetes. Getting a good look at that cranium did, however, help me put away any lingering grief I felt over my upcoming scheduled c-section.

Gestational diabetes has also opened my eyes to the realities of diabetes, and to the difficulties and challenges that Type 1 and Type 2 diabetics live with every day. It's incredibly difficult to eat out, to watch television, to even flip through a magazine without being barraged by an onslaught of illegal foods. The old "everything in moderation" adage isn't an option for many diabetics and anyway, what the hell is moderate about deep-fried cheesecake topped with ice cream? Imagine a life where every bite counts - against you. Where every cookie has to be justified, every French fry carefully considered, every fistful of Hershey's Kisses analyzed? Most of us wouldn't last a week.

Now that my risk of developing Type 2 diabetes is 40% higher than it was nine months ago, I'll be thinking twice about every nasty treat I reach for. I'll still whine about being too busy to run or exercise, but I'll do it, because the price of laying around and making excuses has suddenly gotten too high. But first I'm going to have this baby. Then I'm going to eat a whole watermelon and a bagful of Twizzlers. Don't even show me an egg, a slice of ham, or a boneless chicken breast. Mr. Peanut himself couldn't sweet talk me into a single mouthful of peanut butter. This ornery mama is done with the GD diet.