The posts of yore are mostly un-published, though I’ve left a few out there – the ones I tend to like the most, I guess.
The stage has gone dark. (Let’s face it, the stage had been mostly dark for awhile.)
It feels like the right time. Big changes are coming for me. I don’t know what they are, but I know changes are coming, necessarily so. I’m just trying to tidy up in anticipation of them.
If you land here, it’s probably by mistake. Check your map. Re-Google what you’re looking for. And good luck!
For those who landed here on purpose, thanks for visiting me over the years. You probably know how to get in touch.
Wish me luck!
Well, OK – they aren’t really out in the world at large diving in real dumpsters. It’s not that bad.
Yet.
But one time they did come in from playing out front with a 5-pound hand weight they found at the neighbor’s curb in the trash.
“Mom, can we keep this? They were throwing it away.”
Incredulous voices. As if it were made of diamonds or something.
Most of the dumpster diving is really kitchen-trashcan-diving, if I’m being accurate.
I’m not new to surreptitious trips to the trashcan, while they are busy taking baths and cannot see me, pushing those school papers all the way to the bottom of the recycle bin. These spy missions are absolutely necessary because my children seem to believe that I hold onto everything they have ever produced forever and ever because it’s precious and unique. They would be crushed to know how much stuff I throw out after they go to bed.
Including baby teeth.
Ewww. If I don’t keep their school artwork, I’m sure the hell not going to keep their biological leavings. No, I didn’t save anyone’s cord-stump nor do I save baby teeth. And if I have a lock of their baby hair, that’s probably just because it was pulled out ruthlessly by a sister and shoved somewhere that hasn’t been cleaned since then.
It was bad enough that I had to scheme to throw out the school papers in their backpacks, but now it’s gotten worse. Nowadays, I can’t seem to throw anything out without them right there over my shoulder saying “Can I have that?”
I say “It’s an empty peanut butter jar. What do you want it for?”
(Or a paper towel roll, or a plastic milk carton, or some bubble wrap from a package delivery, or whatever. Just anything.)
They say “We want to make something with it. ”
I really appreciate their creative spirits. Truly I do. But a bid to ‘make something with it’ is 6 year old code for I will leave a trail of marker caps and stuck-together pieces of scotch tape and broken and tangled up rubber bands the like of which you have never seen.
I’ve been down this road before.
So anytime I have something to throw away, I nonchalantly look from left to right. I stop and listen. Do I have 45 seconds to get this thing hidden under the banana peels? Oh god, what if they want to make something with the banana peels???
When the coast is clear, I dash for the trash and bury it under whatever I think is the least likely to catch their eyes as necessary for some harebrained creation.
Sometimes, I’m even successful.
Saturday, I was throwing the empty couscous container in the recycle. My 9 year old asked “Can I have that?”
Oh, god, here we go.
I sighed, resigned to scraping Elmer’s glue dyed with food coloring off the breakfast bar, and handed it over to her.
She was up in her bedroom for more than an hour. She had covered the container with a paper label she made herself. It had a picture of a kitty cat and paw-prints all over it. It said DOT AND PUDDY’S TREATS.
“We’re going to Amber’s tomorrow to give her her birthday presents, right?” Amber is the big sister – who is turning 26 tomorrow. (Happy Birthday, Amber!!)
“Yes, we are.” I reply.
“Can you help me buy some cat treats? I made this for her birthday to hold treats for her cats.”
So we did. And Sunday, my creative girl gave her big sister an old couscous container with a custom-label and a bag of treats for Dot and Puddy.
I’m pretty sure it was Amber’s favorite birthday present. Which, what the hell, because I spent a LOT more on what I picked out, but whatever. Ungrateful kids. Right?
Later that night, I told my husband about the gift made from the old container. I said “Isn’t that sweet? I suppose this is why we let them pick through the trash, huh?”
He said “Well, that and because we know that with these skills we are helping them hone, they’ll be uniquely positioned to survive if society collapses.”
Yeah, I guess there’s that too.
My babies are dumpster-divers, and if the world as we know it falls apart, I can rest assured that in spite of the chaos, they will still have a nice pencil-holder made from an empty 1-liter Dr. Pepper bottle.
That’s good parenting.
I hear him slip out of bed and I look at the clock. 1:41AM. The same mysterious capability that would wake me when my babies were rustling in the other room even before they cried out works here too. I’m attuned to these particular night sounds. When he’s up like this, I am on guard.
It’s the usual routine; first a trip into the bathroom where he tests his blood sugar level, then a trip downstairs.
Usually, he moves like a cat. He can see in the dark and manages to navigate soundlessly through the bedroom and the house at large.
Me? Just a trip to the bathroom in the dark becomes a scene from a Jerry Lewis movie. If there is a Lego to be found in this house, I will step on it with my bare foot. If there is a squeaky floorboard, I will manage to never miss it. I will trip over any obstacle, no matter how inconsequential, left on the floor.
If he dies in this bedroom, there is a 50% chance it was his diabetes, but there is an equal chance I bludgeoned him with his own shoe after tripping over it. “How. Many. Times. Have. I. Asked. You. ..”
But we’ll save the bludgeoning for another day.
Now it is a quarter to two in the morning and I lie in bed listening to him head downstairs for some juice or whatever he chooses to bring his blood glucose back to normal. I wonder “Should I put my pajama pants on, just in case?”
See, my father-in-law lives here so when I have to run through the house at night to perform emergency life-saving procedures, I like to be dressed. It was the diabetes that was to blame the time my father-in-law saw my boob before. No repeatsies, ya know?
I hear him down there fixing something to eat or drink, and he’s not quiet as a cat this time – he’s banging things around, much louder than usual. To me, this is one of the subtle clues. That must mean lower-than-usual blood-sugar. Wonder how low he was? Should I get up? Or do I wait for the CRASH-THUMP of his body hitting before I go running? That’s how it usually goes. Where did I put that emergency glucagon shot after our last trip? Is it back where it belongs in the medicine cabinet? Should I put my pants on?
Maybe we shouldn’t have put granite counters in the kitchen.
I mean, the kids are all old enough that I don’t worry so much about them and their precious noggins hitting – but my husband is a diabetic.
Laminate would have been less deadly.
I hope there’s not a thump.
I’m putting my pants on anyway, just in case.
Fortunately, I hear him coming back up the stairs and he climbs back into bed.
“You OK?” I ask.
“Yeah. Just low.” he says.
Low is a word that carries a ton of meaning when you’re the wife of a diabetic. I find myself asking him all the time whether he is low. If he is sweating when I’m not even warm, I ask “Are you low?” When he’s acting goofy about something, “Are you low?” Sometimes diabetics are just goofy – it doesn’t always mean they’re low. But I ask.
For awhile there, we were having lots of issues with these lows sneaking up on him, and I would ask a lot. To him, the question started sounding like an accusation. To me, I asked it as a sort of verbal warning bell.
Ding. Ding. Diabetes, Round 8.
We are fortunate in that we rarely have marital spats that get the adrenaline pumping, but when we have, I’ve had to worry about his blood sugar. Adrenaline will do funny things, and if he drops fast when emotions are already high, he gets aggressive, kind of like a mean drunk. Fortunately, in 18 years there have only been a couple times where this situation has caused him to push things too far. In the heat of the moment, I just think he’s an asshole but later I blame the disease.
We’ve had some doozies of run-ins with this opponent.
But tonight, he’s back in bed. “Just a little low.” he says. “Go back to sleep.” he says.
“I was lying here wondering if your head would hit the granite.” I say.
“You can’t get out of sex that easily.” he replies.
And this is how I know he’s not too low. He’s not good at smart-assy jokes when he’s really low, so it’s a sign that he’s fine. For now.
“Go back to sleep.” he says, but I can’t. My head is swimming with these words you’re reading right now. “I have to go downstairs and write.” I say.
“Why?” he asks.
“They need to know. It’s hard being the wife of a diabetic.” I reply.
He laughs. “I imagine it’s marginally less difficult than being the actual diabetic.”
He’s got a point there. At least my support group gets cupcakes.
~~~~~~~~~~
Other posts about life with diabetes can be found HERE and HERE and HERE. Probably a few other places too, but it’s 2:27 and I need to go back to bed now that no one has cracked his head open on the granite.
If you’re so inclined, go donate to the American Diabetes Association and we thank you.
