What Slim does with his free time....

Slim saved his birthday money to buy a tablet.  I am pretty vigilant about making sure he's not puttering around the interwebs, stumbling upon something unsavory on YouTube (he likes to look for Lego Star Wars videos and such).

Guess I should have been a little more discerning about the kids drawing app I let him download.  And perhaps a lock on the fridge is in order....

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The Sugar (Part 1)

Moo has Type I Diabetes.  I'm not sure how this fact has eluded the Confessions thus far, but I guess I don't have a whole lot to say on the topic in general.  It is very much ingrained in our daily lives, of course, and yet life just rolls along without much incident as far as the disease goes.  I can't figure out how something that drives me nuts multiple times a day and has a good bit of "control" over some of the function of our days has become sort of ho-hum and so mundane.

Our "journey"  (that sounds so euphemistic, but "nightmare" might be a little extreme) began exactly three years ago today.  Moo had been symptomatic (unbeknownst to us) for probably about a year--hindsight is so enlightening.  The problem was (aside from the fact that I pretty much don't worry about anything--to a fault sometimes) Moo would complain of symptoms that were isolated, seemingly "normal" and I felt always had a reasonable explanation.  Sometimes she would come home from school with a  headache (I would think she had a long day, or just needed a snack), or she would be moody (7 going on 17, anyone?).  Occasionally she would complain about her vision, but she was literally sitting in the dining room 20 feet away from the counter telling me she couldn't read the microwave clock while she was chewing her dinner.  (I tried it--the 1/2-inch high numbers on the LED clock on the microwave are not too smooth at 20 paces while jawing a mouthful of mac 'n cheese.)

Anyway, the big tell was when she started getting up to use the bathroom EVERY night.  Sometimes twice.  Sometimes THREE times.  We refused water before bed and still she got up.  I was still pretty much clueless, but The Sarge's spidey senses were tingling.  His brother is a Type I diabetic diagnosed thirty years ago when he was four years old.

Now, just a brief education for you:  Type I diabetes is not considered to be hereditary, so we did not immediately jump to that conclusion.  And one might think that having someone in the family with it would have given us a leg-up on the recognition factor, but The Sugar is quite a bi-polar animal.  The Sarge remembers being drilled on what to look for if his little brother started acting funny or looked unwell.  He remembers him passing out quite a few times.  In general, low blood sugar is a pretty serious concern for a lot of Type I diabetics.  What we were unknowingly dealing with was the opposite end of the spectrum--and not uncommon for undiagnosed Type I's.  Moo's blood sugar was through the roof.  (Now about those spidey senses....)

October 27, 2009.  The Sarge was insistent that something was wrong.  I felt that whatever it was could be dealt with at Moo's annual well-check, scheduled a few weeks from then.  I actually said, "If you really think there is something wrong, then you call and get her an appointment sooner."  He actually did.  It was for the 29th.

I was less than thrilled because for starters, it was Trick or Treat night in our town.  Also, the appointment was for 2:00 pm so I had to take Moo out of school early for it.  We got to our family physician's office and went over the issues (symptoms), she asked a lot of questions, drew some blood and had Moo pee in a cup.  Then we waited.  And waited.  And waited.  for about 45 minutes.  I was not particularly thrilled about the wait and I was starting to get a little weirded out.  What the hell could be taking so long?

Never in a million years would I have guessed that the doctor would come back in the room and say "I suspect your daughter has Type I diabetes."  The Sugar.  Seriously, I thought we were going to get a pamphlet, go home, and maybe come back in a few days for a follow-up visit.  I had no idea.  I think it took some time for the shock to wear off.  Neither of us started crying until we were in the car on the way to the Emergency Room.  And I think we were both mostly crying because it was then--on our way to the hospital and some scary unknown new normal--solidly sure that she wouldn't be trick-or-treating that night.

~Part 2~

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Give me Sanctuary.

Got to relive some glory days the other night at a reunion for the club where me and The Sarge met.  Had it not been for Sanctuary, there would be no Moo, no Slim, no Geel, no Confessions.  I had been thinking about a lot of things leading up to Friday night and several times wandered around to how much things have changed.  I decided to list a few on the way there:

Sanctuary Reunion, it'll be good to go back. 
5 things that are different tonight:
5. Driving 4 hours just to be "in the area"
4. Leaving the kids with the sitter. 
3. Driving up with the other half, instead of the old crew. 

2. Knowing there will be no 3 am breakfast at the diner later.
1. Trying to remember all the "stuff" (cash, ID, directions, etc.) Are we old enough for Alzheimers already?! wtf?

5 things that are the same (about the old days, and decidedly different from my everyday life now) :
5. Makeup.
4. Having a drink.
3. Changing in the car on the way. (OK, it was only my boots, but thank God I remembered to bring that other pair. When the hell did i get to be so practical?)
2. Pleasure/Fashion/Style vs. Pain (see above-that first pair of boots was killing me before i even got there)
1. Dancing my ass off to some kicking music!
See you all on the floor!

The Cult - She Sells Sanctuary

Of course there are more things.  I mean, the fact that I posted this (1)on the event page on (2)facebook, (3)in the car (4)on the way there, from my (5)smartphone is it's own self-contained list.  

A few other things occurred to me after the fact.   For one thing, talking to or at or over three kids and the TV quite regularly--with the "occasional" screaming rant thrown in--doesn't even come close to a few straight hours of conversational yelling above the din of a nightclub full of many loud people and extremely loud music.  There was a minor snafu involving the weather that postponed the 9:00 pm start time to 10:30.  In just that hour and a half, before we even got upstairs to get the festivities underway, I was talking so much to various friends, old acquaintances and familiar faces, that my throat was bone dry and sore before I ever stepped out on the dance floor and worked up a sweat.  And speaking of sweat, it became clear to me halfway through the night that I should have trained for several weeks before attempting to dance like I used to three nights a week with no problem.

Some things stayed blessedly the same.  Like my many-years-long friendships with my crew.  Although we live kinda far apart, and our respective Lives have pulled us in different directions, it was such a GREAT feeling to see them and know that there is still some love out there--no matter the distance.  We talked like old times, danced just like back in the day.  There was a comfort in the old familiarity between friends.
    

That was by far the best part of the night.  Other highlights include not breaking anything or pulling any muscles, not getting any emergency calls from the sitter and not drinking enough to get a hangover.  Good times.  They most definitely were Friday night as in years before and I think everyone who went would love to do it again.  As for The Sarge and me, we didn't "close the joint" this time, but if there is a next time, I'll train harder and stay longer.  It was our first real night away from all three kids.  Give me Sanctuary, again and again.

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A letter to my former would-be babysitter.

Dear Composite of Several Recent Babysitter FAILS:

I suppose when I casually told you that I didn't care what you did as long as my kids were safe, that you took that to heart. A little too young and childless for that kind of sarcasm, I guess. My bad.
  
Let me start over. Let me say first, thank you. Thank you for taking time out of your young, and childless and relatively carefree life to take responsibility for the only things in this world that I would kill to protect.

Not only is it important to me that you are a responsible human being whose care for my children should closely mimic my own (without crossing a line that would incite my natural maternal paranoia that you are a psychotic lunatic kidnapper) but also that you understand the fact that I consider this your job and expect you to treat it as such--be on time (and don't tell me two days before you start that you can't watch my kids this summer--despite the fact that you told me you would, two months ago), look presentable (keep the Daisy Dukes at home--I don't care how fucking hot it is out, I have central air) and unless you are legitimately ill (not hungover) and/or puking (not hungover) and/or contagious, show up. My kids will survive a sniffle, they are in the public school system.

As I see it, you have two basic duties: one, keep my kids safe and two, play. The first should go without saying. The second, well, I thought it was fairly obvious. Since you don't have to fold clothes, vacuum, run errands, pay bills or do any of the things I am constantly barely finishing, what else could possibly eat up your time with my precious little darlings? Put your phone down--really, that text to your BFF about Tommy's new skank can wait until you get home--sit your ass on the floor and make the baby a goddamn block tower she can knock over, just so you can build another one. Read a book. Hug a babydoll. Sing the Itsy Bitsy Spider, and damn it, do the hand motions and putting a little extra finger-wiggling in that rain.  Play Monopoly with the older two or bust out the crayons and coloring books. Whatever! PLAY! If I could afford to, I'd do it all day every day.

I can't possibly make you see that years from now when you have a "real" job and you’re punching a clock and paying taxes and wondering where the last ten years went, you will finally truly appreciate the job this is now. Show up, play with some kids, feed them, don't let them kill each other, don't burn the house down. (Oh yeah, and DON'T fall asleep on the couch when you're responsible for an inquisitive one year old.) Big responsibility for sure, but you'll never have another job like it. In the "real world" work is not often "play" (unless you are so lucky as to have a career at something you truly love and are passionate about). And no one will hug you just for showing up and being fun.

So for now, I won't miss you, and I'm probably lucky that these things didn't work out. In the end, I do believe that despite the shitstorm of stress I am operating in between dragging the kids to work with me some days (thank God I can!) and slapping together a patchwork babysitting schedule with duct tape and bubble gum and good Mommy friends, my kids will be better off not having known you or been in your company long term. For all the crappy attitude and slothfulness they will not witness, I will thank myself.

Good luck, and good riddance.

(Not-So-) Super Mom.

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Hope this.

(Well, Mediocrates, I hope I get this out in time.......)

Step 1: Write a blog post about hope & publish it on your blog.
Step 2: Invite one (or more!) bloggers to do the same. 
Step 3: Link to the person who recruited you (me, in this case) at the top of the post, and the people you're recruiting at the bottom of the post. 

Melanie Crutchfield will be holding "Closing Ceremonies" around August 10 and will gather up little snippets from people that wrote about hope, so make sure you link back to her as the originator of the relay.

Hope.

When I think about hope I inevitably think about desperation. Desperate people hope, and not always in the most dire of situations.  I could be desperate for a drink and hope that my kids didn't drink all the lemonade.  Pedestrian, I know, but true none the less.  We hope and hope and hope day in and day out about the big stuff and the small.  Right now I hope I will finish this in time to be a part of this blog relay about Hope.  

I could go on for days about the things I hope for daily.  It is a never-ending and ever-changing and all-encompassing (big and small) list of things.  The small stuff comes and goes (like lemonade) but the big things seem to hang on, of course.  No one hopes for a cure for their disease and then doesn't think about it again the next day, or hour or minute.  That kind of hope lives in you and consumes you and you become it.  

Some of the big things for me right now?  

• I hope my husband gets a certain job he's been after. He has a decent one now, but this one's better and he deserves it.  We struggle and I juggle two part time jobs and the full time mother-of-three gig.  It's doing, but the other job would make a world of difference for us. 
• I hope that our freakin' house sells so we can get a (slightly) larger one with enough room for all of  us.  
• I hope we can get Moo's diabetes under control soon.  She's okay, but we could be doing better with it.  It's a disease with no cure, so it's all "one day at a time" and shit, but it just sucks sometimes that we never get a day off.  Chronic.  Hate it.
• And of course there's always the big:  I hope the good, fun, educational stuff I sometimes do with my kids, outweighs the crappy, losing-my-shit, bad mommy episodes that I should be ashamed to admit to but know we all have.  That's there a lot--or maybe it just seems like a lot lately because it's summer.  

Anyway, hope.  It's always there.  Sometimes it's a disease, sometimes it's lemonade.  Sometimes it's a blog.  Hope you liked it. 

I fear it may by too late for me to invite anyone but I will add a link or two to some of my favorite blogs.

Mediocrates

Daddy Knows Less

Food Good, Laundry Bad

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The Thrill Is Gone--Part Four of The Crib Chronicles

(If you're new here you might want to catch Parts One, Two and Three first.)

This post is way overdue.  My bruised pride has prevented me from writing it thus far.

The Geel is back in the bed.  The crib is gone and when I think that, somehow B.B. King's The Thrill is Gone pops into my head, and it is.  It was a beautiful time we had but it's over.  I can't exactly pinpoint where it went wrong (I blame the crappy babysitter--that's a whole other post-to-come) or perhaps the night I tried to run out and catch a movie with some girlfriends (curse you, Magic Mike).  I'm not sure even Channing Tatum's gyrating groin was worth the agony of defeat.

How it ended was that a couple weeks ago I put her in her crib for the night and she screamed.  Now she had cried before but always a sort of tired whiny cry, and never for longer than 15 minutes at most.  Usually if she cried it was five minutes or thereabouts and she would whimper and go to sleep.  This particular time she started crying hard and screaming.  I sort of knew it was over.  I stood by the door with my back to her and tried to see if I could wait her out.  Wasn't happening.  The screaming was getting worse, and I have to hand it to The Sarge, because his tolerance for that kinda stuff is ZERO, but he just let me do it my way.  He had witnessed the magic and he had been sleeping back in the bed and I suspect he really wanted it to work despite his asinine paranoia about the crib.

So eventually I just picked her up and brought her to my room and nursed her to sleep.  The good news is that she since being back she hasn't been scrambling over the edge and repelling down the side nor has she been attached to the teetas all night using them as a pacifier (the two main reasons I was hellbent on getting her in the crib: safety and lack of sleep.)  

Truth is I don't mind her being in the bed.  Moo and Slim both co-slept until they were roughly 2-years-old so The Geel was actually on the young side around here for moving on to independent sleeping.  But I have to admit I'm a little disappointed.  I feel kinda like EPIC FAIL here and I did enjoy having the bed to myself even if I like the snuggly stuff and waking up next to that cute little face (when she's not roaring, moaning, and groaning--this kid is NOT a morning person).  There was a little thrill of success going on.

So I'm not thrilled to have her back but it's ok.  I think she's a little happier overall and I feel good about that.

The thrill is gone
It's gone away for good
Oh, the thrill is gone baby
Baby its gone away for good

Someday I know I'll be over it all baby  

The thrill is indeed gone, but I'm already getting over it.

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yogurt, man. it'll make ya feel good.

Damn! a whole month since I've posted.  (As if that's shocking.)  I'm slack-a-lackin!  And although a few posts are in the works, this is all I've got today....

Any questions?

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