One

One centimeter. That's all.

I need to hold off until Thursday night because I have to pick O up from camp that day. August 5th is a good day to have a baby, right?

Tomorrow I will mostly be bitching my head off because it's supposed to be 105 degrees here. ONE HUNDRED AND FIVE. That's obSCENE. I have the girls' inflatable pool all set up in the back yard. I will fill it in the morning with nice, cool water. I will slather up the Boo with sunscreen. I will slather up myself with sunscreen. I will fill the cooler with ice and we will be spending 99.9% of the day getting pruney. Tomorrow is going to suck sweaty donkey balls.

The Green Mile

I'm currently avoiding watching this - it's on in the next room. Jesus. Fucking weird movie. It goes from funny to setting a man on fire in an electric chair in about 30 seconds. Not my cup of tea.

I should have watched the new Alton Brown show, dammit. Like I wanted to.

Two days

That's how much time TCBIM is taking off when I have the baby. The day she's born and the day after. Unless, of course, she's born over a weekend. Then he won't take any time at all.

I can't even begin to tell you how angry I am. Two days? I realize that he doesn't have any vacation time, but two days? I haven't even been able to talk to him about it because I'm so upset that I know I'll just go off and get hysterical and that won't win me any points.

I don't know why I can't make him see that I need his help. Not forever, but for now. Every day, while he's at work, he calls and says he's going to do thus-and-so when he gets home. And every night, he gets home, eats his dinner and plops down in front of the tv and does exactly nothing. He might wash the dish he uses for his dinner, but no one else's and never any pots and pans. When I complain, he rolls his eyes at me. When I try to talk rationally and calmly, he says he'll do more. But he doesn't.

His big argument is that he does all the big stuff, like mowing the lawn. But the lawn hasn't been mowed in three weeks. He rushed down to Home Depot to get a screen door for the back door, but it doesn't fit properly. So it's hanging there, half open all the time and useless, because there's a huge gap and, oh, it doesn't close. He threw it in my face that he was going to be the one replacing the heating system. But the heating system, all three-fucking-thousand dollars worth of it, is still sitting in the driveway. It's not even in the cellar yet, it's in the drive, under a tarp. It's been there since May. Three THOUSAND dollars worth of stuff. Sitting there. Rotting.

The thing is, I can't do this stuff right now. I can't mow the lawn. I can't fix the door. I certainly can't hump a cast iron boiler into the cellar all by myself. And I'm sick of it. I'm sick of living this half-assed existence and hearing these stupid excuses from him. I wouldn't mind doing all the housework if he was doing his bit, but he's not.

He leaves stuff everywhere. In my back yard are his golf clubs, golf shoes and hockey gear. They've been there since last night. I'd imagine they're going to be there for another week or two, getting ruined in the weather. His side of the bedroom is no better. We have a very small room. There's maybe a foot of space between the edge of the bed and the closet. It's impossible for me to get in the closet because his clothes cover the floor space. Mind you, the laundry and hamper are about three steps outside the door, but he doesn't put them in the hamper, he just leaves them on the floor. He can't even feed his own dog. I asked him to three times last night and when I got up this morning, the dog had no food and no water.

I can't get him to change his ways. I can't make him see that this is a problem, a serious problem. He's ruining things that cost money; lots and lots of money. I don't know why he doesn't see this.

It's not going to get any better once the new baby gets here, either. I'm going to have less time than I have now to get things done. And he's already said that he doesn't want to come home and immediately take over the child care. So. What do I do? How am I going to cope?

I wish I hadn't gotten pregnant. I wish we hadn't bought this house. I wish I'd kept my job and stayed in the town we were in and just left everything as it was. At least when I was working, I had his help. But now, now that I'm not working, he seems to think that I'm going to be able to do it all. I just don't see that happening. And I don't know how to make things better.

What do you think? Is it me?

Once again, I'm soliciting opinions from my imaginary internet weirdo friends.

I love my little Jizo guy over there. He's cute, but he does kind of look like Yoda. I was thinking that this photo pretty much epitomizes this blog.




Kind of a pissed-off-get-outta-my-face-holy-shit-my-hair-is-awful thing.

Whaddaya think?

*Edit* Ok, how the hell do you make a picture smaller? I tried using that, but it's huge.

So my choice is "Or death?"

You know your kid is sick when she refuses a small slice of angel food cake. Oh dear.

I woke up last night to pee (I'm really getting tired of that). I got back into bed and was just starting to fall into this weird dream where I was giving birth on the floor of my Honda as TCBIM sped down the highway, when I heard this little voice, "Mama. Oh, mama. Oh, mama. Hot. Oh, mama. Hot." Once I woke up enough to figure out it wasn't the dream child I was birthing, talking to me, and that I wasn't actually giving birth anywhere, never mind on the floor of a Honda Accord, I realized it was The Boo.

And yes, she was hot. Very hot. I doped her up with some Tylenol, gave her a sippy cup full of cold water and she went right back to sleep.

This morning? Stink city, man. She'd pooped out the back of two diapers by noon. Disgusting, orange, runny, smelly poops, the kind that make you reel back, fanning the air in front of your face, when you open the bedroom door. She's drinking a lot, but not eating. I'm not panicking yet, but if she's still like this tomorrow morning, I'm calling the pediatrician. She hasn't been sick in ages, so I'm probably overdue for a bout.

Oh, and to add insult to injury, the damned cat puked all over my bed at 6 a.m.. Lovely. Just how I want to be woken up. He's already been to the vet once, last week, for this. Apparently, the antibiotics he's on aren't doing the trick.

______________________________



In other news, O is at camp until next Thursday. I miss her a lot, but there's this cool e-camp thing where you can send emails to your kid and see pictures of them online. I spent a while this morning, scrolling thru the pictures, looking for her. There were a few and she looks like she's having fun. I've already sent her two emails and she's only been gone since Sunday.

Her dad never called her back after totally blowing her off last weekend. She refused to call him, said she didn't want to talk to him. He called here Sunday night and all he wanted to know was if she'd made it to camp. I said yes and he pretty much hung up on me - I'm sure he didn't want to get an earful from me.

O has said that she'd write to him from camp. We had this long conversation on Saturday about it and she said she just didn't want to deal with it, just wished it would all go away. I told her that she was going to have to deal with it or her dad was just going to keep doing this. He's being immature, but if they both keep putting their heads in the sand over this, then nothing will ever change. I suggested that she write down how she's feeling, in a letter to her dad, and if she feels like it, to send it to him. I told her that I know it's hard for her to confront him in person or on the phone, so a letter is probably the best way. And then, she'll know. If he responds and actually talks to her about this (highly unlikely, given his track record), then maybe they can salvage something. If he doesn't respond and continues to act the same way, then she'll have to decide what she wants to do. I can't make that decision for her. I will support her 100%, no matter what she decides, though. As much as I loathe her father, I will not keep her from seeing him.

Book Guilt

I started this blog back in October, right before I got pregnant. I signed up with the name bookish because, well, I am. However, it seems that the second that pregnancy test came back positive, all my book-reading abilities flew right out the window.

These days, I can't concentrate on anything to save my life. I have hundreds and hundreds of books and probably 50 of them are books that are waiting to be read. Some I'll probably never get to (The Tao of Physics? Probably not gonna happen.) but some I really want to read (I'm looking at two PG Wodehouse books, Six Wives by David Starkey and Last Train To Paradise, all begging to be opened). And what am I reading? The Shell Seekers by Rosemund Pilcher. The fucking Shell Seekers. Which I have read, no lie, probably 15 times already. It's a nice book, very comfortable, like sinking into a feather bed, but still. What next? Re-read Little Women for the eleventy-third time? This is ridiculous.

I know that being pregnant makes me lose what little concentration I have. Plus, there's that whole annoying exhaustion thing. But I'm starting to get a little disappointed in myself. I have huge amounts of book guilt - does anyone else suffer from this or am I a total lunatic? Books that I haven't read yet, that just sit there on the shelf. I can hear them. They say, "Oh, that's right. Read that Maeve Binchy again. That Jennifer Weiner, like you haven't read her books enough times. We'll just sit here. Mouldering. Don't mind us." I tried separating them into different book cases, to shut them up, but it hasn't help. Now, instead of one big section of waiting-to-be-reads, they're scattered all over the house, waiting to snag my guilty conscience as I pass them over for that battered copy of Maia or the well-thumbed Autobiography Of Henry VIII. (Both are excellent, though. I highly recommend them.)

I don't want to start reading drivel. I like my books, even the ones I've read many times. They're like old friends. But I want to make new friends. I NEED to make new friends, so my mind doesn't turn into complete mush once the new baby gets here, as is highly likely. So what do I do? Stop reading so many blogs? But I like the blogs I read, I enjoy them, I get information or support or a laugh from them, and that's important, too. They do, it has to be said, severely cut into my reading time. Maybe I need to ration my blog-reading time. Only do it for an hour a day. But then how will I remember which ones I haven't read yet? There's that whole seive-for-a-brain problem again.

I just don't know. I do think I'll shut down the computer now, though, and go finish my book. Even if I have read it before.

I Wonder If I Can Teach Her To Sing "The Jackal"

Finally. We have come to a decision on a name. Nothing like waiting until the last minute.

Charlotte Jane. TCBIM has a bee in his bonnet that he wants to be able to call her CJ at some point. Oooooook. I shan't be calling her that. At least, I don't think I will. I'll have to wait until I meet her, see if she's CJ material.

After all, that's a hell of a name to live up to.

Hell

That last post kind of wrung me out, so here's a meme for your amusement (and because I haven't done one in a while.)

Stolen from Behind The Stove, (who already bagged the best quote) who stole it from Badger, who stole it from...someone.

What's your Hell like?

Drinks in my hell:
Budweiser/Miller/Coors and any beer of that ilk
Clamato
Blackberry Brandy
White Zinfandel
Wine coolers

Food in my hell:
Chicken livers the way my mother made them - overcooked, dry and nasty
Manhattan clam chowder
That awful sweet potato dish with marshmallows that people serve at Thanksgiving
Green bean casserole, or anything made with cream of whatever soup
Pureed turnips
Riced potatoes (what is the point of that, exactly?)
Buttermilk dressing
Ranch dressing
Thousand Island dressing (aka Puke In A Bottle)
Processed Cheese Food

Occupations in my hell:
Forest ranger (I hate bugs. To the core of my being. Hate. Them.)
Daycare teacher (I don't much like other people's children - hell, I can barely stand my own sometimes)
Stable cleaner-outer (Bugs AND shit. *shudder*)
Garbage collector (Trash breeds bugs. And stench. And sweaty men.)

Music mix in my hell:
James Blunt
Metallica
Any of those nasally rock bands, like Nickleback and System of a Down and such. That's not music, that's whining.
Stevie Nicks/Fleetwood Mac
99% of country music
Folk music - not trad. stuff, but girl-with-a-guitar kind of thing.

President in my hell:
Hah. Take a wild guess.

Authors in my hell:
James Patterson
Danielle Steele
Nora Roberts (sorry, Sarahtoo!)
The guy who wrote Corelli's Mandolin
Charles Dickens

Husbands in my hell:
Jim Carrey
Will Farrell
Jack Black
Ben Stiller

Only activities allowed in my hell:
Pap smears
Dental work of any kind
Dish washer

The Body Image post

Beanie Baby has a really interesting post about parenting special needs kids. Go, read, comment. Scroll down and read her other post on eugenics. It is snark heaven. I loved it.

__________________________________________________________


Over at i obsess, there's a great post about a mother's body. She also links to Shape of a Mother, which is an amazing site. It's made me cry and think and get very envious of these women who are celebrating themselves in a way I'm unable to.

I've seen this site linked on a lot of blogs I read regularly. I've liked reading the stories these women have shared. I've looked at their pictures. And I think "They look amazing compared to me."

I've always had body image issues. I've hated the way I look since I was aware that I have a body. Since 1st or 2nd grade, I've been teased about my butt. My mother was always trying to get me to tuck my butt in - what? How the hell do you do that? All these years later, I have no idea. She even took me to a doctor about it. He told her I had some sort of spinal curvature - not scoliosis, because it didn't go side-to-side, but rather in and out. My mother, figuring she knew more than anyone who attended medical school, didn't believe the guy. Her answer to this was to put me in dance classes.

I have never been a graceful person. I don't posess any athletic ability what. so. ever. So why my mother thought ballet and tap lessons were a good idea is beyond me. But she and the ballet teacher were determined that I was going to do this. And of course, one of the first things I had to learn was the splits. I can't do the splits. Even when I was a flexible little 7 year-old, I couldn't do the splits. My mother and the ballet teacher had other thoughts. I vividly remember them shoving me by the shoulders as I attempted, yet again, to get my butt to touch the floor. Both of them, hands pushing hard on me and the entire fucking class in a circle around me, laughing, while I cried and begged them to stop. It was mortifying.

I used to go up a grade for reading and English and there was this boy in that grade who would tease me mercilessly. Anthony Salvidio. I'll never forget him. He was hardly a svelte creature himself, but he felt that it was his duty to torment me at every opportunity. He never called me Julia, he called me Jellybutt. Once, we had to make up a skit and he decided to write it. His name for my character? Bertha Butt. I just flat out refused to take part. I think it was the only zero I ever got, but I just couldn't do it. It was hard enough being the only non-Catholic in the school, but you add glasses and a fucked up body to the mix and, well, suffice it to say, I wasn't the most secure kid, certainly not secure enough to get up in front of the class and make fun of myself.

I grew about 8 inches in a year and in high school, weighed 117 pounds. At 5'8", this was almost underweight, but of course, I thought I looked awful. And I still had that ass.

And now? Now that I've been pregnant 3 times in the last 3 years, now that I've given birth to three, soon to be four, children, I absolutely loathe the way I look. I don't have massive stretch marks from being pregnant, but I have this stomach. I had a c-section with O and even when I'd lost a ton of weight, I still had this saggy, pouchy stomach that hung down a bit. It made me sick. It still does. I haven't gained any weight with this preganancy, or with the Boo's, but I did gain something like 70 lbs with O - most of which I never really lost. Well, I lost it, but I gained a lot of it back over the years. I don't even want to talk about my boobs or the cellulite on my legs or my flabby arms. I'll make myself puke.

TCBIM thinks I look great. He's always telling me that he loves how I look, but I can't seem to get past this. I'm so insecure about how I look that it's unhealthy. I constantly worry that he's going to get disgusted with my body. I have to force myself to let him look at me. He's a lot younger than I am and I know it's kind of stupid and vain, but I worry (incessantly) that he's going to wake up one morning and wonder what the fuck he's doing with this fat, flabby old hag. I've never told him any of this.

It's so shallow of me, but if I ever won the lottery, the first thing I'd do is hire a personal trainer, lose weight and then get plastic surgery. Get the boobs up where they belong, get the tummy tightened, get rid of the cellulite and flab. I wouldn't care what people though of me for doing it.

I really admire the women who can proudly display their bodies on that site. I am beyond envious at the comfort level they have about themselves. I don't know how they got that and I wish I could be that way, but I can't. People can tell me I look good and I never believe them. I don't see it. I don't look good. I look awful and I hate it and I wish I knew how to make these feelings stop. It kills me inside a little, every day, every time I have to look at myself in the mirror, every time I have to go try on clothes, every time I meet new people. I wonder what they're thinking, I wonder what they're saying and I wonder why I ever leave the house at all.

Let's play Name That Baby!

I think we've narrowed it down to the following:

Eliza Jane
Charlotte (no middle name yet)
Sarah Jane

I'm leaning heavily towards Eliza. I like it. It's different without being weird. But I also really like Charlotte.

If the 87 ultrasounds were wrong and it's a boy, we're fucked. We haven't even discussed boy's names.

The opinions of my imaginary internet weirdo friends would be appreciated.

CGMS Results, or: I really suck at this

Holy shit. I just got the print outs from the CGMS that O wore a couple of weeks ago. It sucks ass.

7/6
Average BG - 195
Range - 162 - 236
Duration high - 65%
Duration in limits - 35%

7/7
Average BG - 254
Range - 190 - 362
Duration high - 100%

7/8
Average BG - 227
Range - 133 - 345
Duration high - 80%
Duration in limits - 20%

7/9
Average BG - 198
Range - 140 - 255
Duration high - 69%
Duration in range - 31%

I have all these graphs that I can't really make heads or tails of right now. The duration high/in range numbers are confusing because it doesn't look like she was ever in range, really. The CDE is supposed to be calling me to discuss the results, but man, those are some shitty, shitty numbers.

I hate this. I feel so overwhelmed by it sometimes that I just want to go cry. We both try so hard - we check 10 - 15 times a day. We correct. We adjust basal rates. We're in contact with Joslin. I'm not slacking off. So why the fuck can't I get it right? Why do I feel like the world's biggest failure? I feel like I'm hammering nails with feather, for all the good I'm doing.

All that sticky blood, sitting there in her system, doing what it does, slowly damaging things. All the visions of kidney problems and eye problems and nerve problems that all these highs could be causing. It goes around and around the groove in my brain incessantly. It makes me nuts. It worries me sick.

Dial L For Loser

Once again, O's father failed to show up or even call today. He was supposed to pick her up this morning. She called his house and cell phones, twice - at 8 a.m. and 9:15 a.m.. Left messages each time, the last one saying that we had to run errands and gave our cell phone number for him to call to let us know what time he'd be here. Nothing. No phone calls. At all. At home or on the cell.

O told me the last time he pulled this (two weeks ago), he did it because she hadn't called him enough during the week. So, let me get this straight: You, the adult, didn't come to pick up your daughter, the 11 year-old, because you don't think she paid enough attention to you? Come again?

She's pissed but not surprised. Which is really, really sad.

I need some worry beads. Or a good, stiff drink.

What is wrong with me?

We can't think of a name for this child. At all. TCBIM and I sit there and look at each other and say "I have no idea" and she's due in FOUR freakin' weeks! Four. Which means, really, I could go any day now and the poor kid isn't going to have a name.

I also can't get my head around the fact that she IS going to be here in a few weeks. It doesn't seem real. You'd think, with the pummelling my insides are taking and the absolutely ginormous belly I'm carting around, that I'd be a little more in touch with reality, but no. No concept, really, except to freak out and wonder how I'm going to handle things. But it's an abstract freak out. I can't actually imagine her here.

Which sets off all kinds of lovely thoughts in my brain. I've almost convinced myself that something is going to go terribly wrong right before or during delivery. I don't know why, it's completely irrational, but there you have it. My brain in action. It's a fucked up landscape inside my head and the little yellow happy pills aren't doing their job very well right now. I worry incessantly.

For instance: The Boo is 19.5 months old. She's still taking two long naps a day. She gets up around 6:30 and is back down for a nap by 9 or 9:30. She sleeps for about 2 hours, sometimes longer. Up, play, lunch and back down by 12:30 for another 2.5 - 3 hour nap. She goes to bed for the night around 6:30 or 7 p.m.. This seems like a lot of sleep. I do realize the insanity of thinking my kid sleeps to much, but this is how the diabetes diagnosis started with O. She started taking two naps a day again. She started drinking and peeing a lot (which Boo is doing, although, to be fair, it's freakin' hot here). O had a diaper rash from hell and Boo is getting a bad one right now. She's also not really growing. She's weighed 22 lbs for her last to peds appointments, which seems odd. I did check her blood sugar (because I really am that paranoid) and she was 83 about an hour after eating. I haven't done a fasting yet - probably tomorrow morning. Am I being a worry wort?

The thing that really set off alarm bells in my head was when TCBIM said "God, she sleeps a lot. Is that normal? Do you think we need to ask the doctor?" Bear in mind, this is a man who thinks that slicing off the tip of your finger is no big deal, who wouldn't go to the doctor until dragged there at gun point, who's needed bloodwork done for various and sundry digestive issues (hooo boy. He can drive me out of a room sometimes) but won't get it done. Him asking to call the doctor is like me asking to have Spam for dinner.

How often do children this age sleep? I can't judge by O, since she was in the midst of a pancreas shut down at that age. And I can't remember back that far to remember how much A slept.

I'm going to call the pediatrician anyway, just because I couldn't live with myself if I let it go and it turned out there really was something wrong. But in the meantime, I'll just freak out here.

Behold, The Power Of Cheese

Clickety click.

Doods. My friend T in Cambridge just started as a chef at this place. How fucking psyched am I?? Look at the cheese! Look at the meats!! Look at all the wanky foodstuffs!!! I think I'm in heaven.

Damn, I love having a friend who's a chef. So. Fucking. Cool.

A $2,000 Piece of Shit

Warning: Lots and lots and LOTS of swearing.

I fucking HATE this computer. All my techy-geek friends, whom I love and adore (when they've showered) told me Apples were great. Never crashed, no viruses for them, blahblahblahfuckingblah. Well, guess what? They're all fucking WRONG.

This computer crashes All. The. Fucking. Time. I hate it. I can't do shit with it. It's slow, it's useless and I'm starting to wish I'd just spent my fucking money on a goddamned Dell or something. G5s suck ass.

Fuck you, Steve Jobs. And the horse you rode in on.

Bits of The Boo or; Why I Never Get Anything Done Around Here

Did you ever read the book Olivia by Ian Falconer? Bits of that book describe my youngest, The Boo, to a T.

She picks up the long-suffering cat and carts him about, one paw up next to his ear, the other dangling and bumping as she runs with him thru the house. She brings him his cat food (how nice! Dinner delivered.) and when he, understandably, moves rather sharpishly away from her, she follows him with the bowl. She squats in front of him and tries to feed him, one bit of kibble at a time. When that inevitably fails, she shrugs, retrieves a spoon from the silverware drawer and then feeds it to herself. This is usually when I walk in on the scene because as we all know, anything more than 5 seconds of silence means that someone is Up To No Good.

And the seagulls from Finding Nemo? That's the Boo. Mine. Mine. Mineminemineminemine.



She also loves to draw. It will (glory, glory, hallelujah) keep her occupied for a good 20 minute stretch. That is worth cash money to me. She does get frustrated at times and will crumple up the paper and dramatically toss it to the floor.

The artist at work.

Artistic agony.

The discarded works of The Boo (and my toes).

Masterpiece.

She has trouble acting normal when she's nervous

(Name that tune)


Go read this post about benign neglect. She said it way better than I ever could have. It's definitely how I parent.



The movie? It was excellent fun. Some quotes, you ask? Why, certainly.

Elizabeth: There will come a moment when you have the chance to do the right thing.
Jack: I love those moments. I like to wave at them as they pass by.

Jack: You know, these clothes do not fancy you at all. It should be a dress or nothing. I happen to have nothing in my cabin.

Jack: I was nothing more than an almost innocent bystander.

Now, that said, it was really long. 150 minutes. And the plot was convoluted and at times, a bit confusing. I enjoyed it, but not as much as the first one. It was definitely scarier - in places, I jumped out of my seat - and the bad guys really looked awful. Fun awful, though. There wasn't as much humour as in the first episode, but it did have some laugh-out-loud funny bits. I'm giving it an 8 out of 10. See it on the big screen, definitely. And, as someone commented, what's not to like about a 20 foot tall, eye-linered Johnny Depp? Hmm? Yes, that's right, nothing.

*drooooooooool*



O is at soccer camp this week. It's just a day camp, from 9 - 3, but I'm nervous as hell about her going. She's extremely self-sufficient but she gets caught up in what she's doing and forgets to check. I can't put alarms on the pump because we're untethered this week. So I'm relying on her to be responsible. I'm hoping I don't get any phone calls. Blah, I'm a wreck. And I can't even go anywhere to take my mind off things because I don't have a cell phone right now. I'm getting mine turned on, on the way home from this camp, but at least for today, I'm stuck here. Freaking.


We're still trying to decide what to name this baby. First we thought Ava would be nice, but now I'm sort of meh on that. Then we came up with Aurelia, which means golden. It's pretty, but it verges on really odd. And TCBIM and I cannot agree on names at all. I like classic names - Elizabeth, Caroline, Eleanor, Anne, Jane, that sort of thing. He doesn't seem to have a preference, but every name I suggest, he shoots down. It's getting old. The baby will be here in four weeks (good grief!) and so far, she's just Baby. I don't think I could have another child even if I wanted to - I'd NEVER come up with a name.


Did anyone watch the entire Red Sox game yesterday? I watched for an hour, then took the kids to the park, went to the warehouse store, went to Staples and then came home, started dinner, ate dinner and it was still going. Nineteen innings. 569 pitches, sixteen pitchers. It took six hours and nineteen minutes. It started at 2:07 p.m. and ended at 8:26 p.m. By the end of it, I was feeling bad for them. They looked exhausted. They were just throwing the bats at the pitches, hoping to god to get a hit, a run, something. Anything. If it had gone on any longer, Francona was going to have to use Kapler or Mirabelli to pitch - they were the only two players he had left. He'd run through the entire bullpen. And poor Varitek must have some aching quads and knees this morning. He caught all 19 innings. It's a shame that we lost, after all that, but I could almost feel the gust from the sigh of relief that came off the field. Ortiz is in the Home Run Derby tonight - I wonder how he'll do after that marathon.


I really ramble when I'm nervous. Aren't you glad you're not sitting in my living room right now? I'd talk both your ears off.

Mmmmmmmmyummy

I am going to see the new Pirates of the Carribean movie this afternoon and I'm so excited, I can hardly sit still. I don't think I've been this excited about seeing a movie ever.

Two hours of drooling over Johnny Depp. Bliss. I think he may have eclipsed Mr. Cusack on my "Men Who Could Eat Cookies In My Bed Whenever They Wanted" list. I luuuuuuurrrve him.

Now It's Turkish Delight On A Moonlit Night

(Name that tune)

Yesterday, O and I made the 2 hour drive in to Boston to see the endocrinologist. We both kind of enjoy these trips - we get to chat on the way in, we go out to lunch and we get all of our questions answered by people who never get tired of discussing diabetes management. It's fanTABulous.

I knew downloading her meter and pump was going to be scary, given all the highs she's had over the last few weeks. The scatter plot was a mess. Her numbers ranged from 41 (her lowest low) to 591 (her highest high). And there was absolutely no pattern, no rhyme or reason for any of the numbers. However. She's grown a whopping inch and three-quarters since her last appointment three months ago, so that explains a lot of those shitty numbers. She's almost 5'2" now. No wonder she's always tired.

Our first appointment was with a researcher there. She helped us get O hooked up to a CGMS, so O's wearing that for the next three days. I'm hoping it will help us get a handle on her overnight numbers - those are the suckiest ones. I hate that I can't see the numbers as they're being read, but if the printout they get at the end of this will help, then I'll deal. I also had them flag O's name to participate in a DexCom study they're doing in January. How fucking COOL would THAT be??! I hope it's, like, a year long...maybe by the time she's done with the study, insurance will have gotten off their asses and approved these devices for use in children. Oh, and pay for them, since they are very expensive. The DexCom is less than the Minimed 522/722, which is what I really want. That's the integrated pump/CGMS and that's $6,000. Way beyond my budget.

Then we had a horrible lunch at Rebecca's Cafe. Really horrible. I've never had a veggie wrap that had absolutely no flavour, but they managed it.

Back to Joslin for the appointment with the CDE. We discussed O's blood sugars and decided to have her go untethered for her soccer camp next week. So she's on Levemir and boluses thru her infusion site. It's a bit of a pain overnight, sitting there waiting for the pump to do its thing, but it's only for a week. She does seem to be running a bit high, but I'm going to give it a few days. Besides, she may run lower while she's at camp next week. And if the CGMS helps us kick these overnight spikes, then maybe she won't need to be bolused overnight. Wouldn't that be nice?

I was so freaking organized this time, too. I brought all of her log sheets from the last month, I remembered to ask for her school orders and her camp physical form and remembered to ask about going untethered. I can't believe I remembered it all. My brain's so seive-like these days, it's a wonder I remember to put on underwear in the morning.

We're also participating in a study about family management of diabetes. It's for kids 10 - 15 years old and O's loving it because every time they talk to us, they give her $5. She also got a new backpack from them yesterday. So we scored - I got four, count 'em, FOUR boxes of Precision Extra Ketone Strips (which are scarcer than hen's teeth) and a vial of Levemir and O got $5 and a backpack. Plus, we get free parking while we participate in this study. Two years of free parking? Have you seen the prices in that stupid garage? $18 for four hours. Sign me up for the study, man.

Born On The Fourth Of July

Today is my son's 18th birthday.

I'm finding it hard to believe that I have a child that old. I'm finding it hard to believe I have a child that old AND I'm about to have a baby. Can I lie and say I was, like, 8 when I had him? No, medical imposibility, right?

We're going to his birthday party today, where he will tell me that he's getting a tattoo. He's expecting me to flip out over this, but since I'm planning on getting a tattoo, I won't. In fact, I will give him money towards said tattoo.

There will be water balloon fights and volleyball games and lots and lots of food. Some people will have too much to drink (not me). Some people will get sunburned (again, not me). There will probably be an argument between some members of his dad's side of the family (it's an annual tradition). And later, the drunk people will set off fireworks. I plan to be long gone by then. I like my fingers and toes and hearing intact.

It's strange when I think about the last 18 years. Before he was born, I wasn't even sure if I wanted to keep him. I was talking with a counsellor about giving him up for adoption. But then he came into the world and I just couldn't do it.

He was a cute baby and he's a handsome kid today. I think I made the right decision. I hope I did. Sometimes I wonder - we don't seem to get along that well these days, but I don't know how much of that is difficulties between us and how much is that he's a typical, self-centered 18 year-old. I think it's mainly the latter - he's all wrapped up in his friends and his job. Plus he lives with his dad, about an hour away from here. It's a little weird. I miss him a lot.

Happy Birthday, Alex.

Martha's got nothing to worry about

Because tomorrow is the 4th of July as well as my son's 18th (Jesus H. Christ, how did THAT happen??!) birthday, I needed to make something to bring to the party. Since I had two dozen eggs in the fridge, I thought "Aha! Deviled eggs."

Have you ever made deviled eggs? Do you know how many kinds of a pain in the ass it is?

Boil the eggs. Ok, I did that, without cracking one.

Then, let the eggs cool and peel them. Yeah. My eggs look like they have leprosy. There are chunks missing and there are splits in the whites. I have no clue how people get those lovely, glistening orbs, but I sure as hell can't do it.

I really think I'm missing some essential house-keeping/Harriet Homemaker gene. I have no idea how to do many of these basic tasks. Get mildew off the bathroom ceiling? I don't know - bleach? Ammonia? I know you can't mix the two, but that's about all I know. Get ink out of a shirt? No idea. I'd just go buy a new shirt. Mop? Honest to god, I'd never mopped a floor in my life until we bought this house four months ago. I'm not very good at it. In fact, I kind of suck.

I can tell you all about Henry VIII. I know a lot about words, grammar and spelling. I know more than I ever wanted to know about having a child with Type 1 diabetes. I have a wealth of pop culture knowledge stuck inside my head. I will kick your ass at Trivial Pursuit and Scrabble.

But I can't mop. And making beds is anathema to me. As I've just discovered, I'm pretty bad at deviled eggs.

I just don't have it together that way. I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing. If I want to take part in the competitive mommy thing, then I suppose not knowing these things is very, very bad. The thing is, I don't care that I can't do these things. Yes, the deviled eggs is frustrating, but I'll just make egg salad finger sandwiches. And my floors are generally kind of yucky. But I don't want to be a slave to my house. I want to blow bubbles with Boo. I want to go outside and inspect bugs in the grass. I want to have tickle fights and blow raspberries and listen to my kids laugh. I want to curl up with a good book at the end of the day, not go scrub the bath tub. I want to listen to NPR so I can stay informed; I don't want to watch Oprah and Judge Whoever and soap operas. I don't want to feel that, because I've chosen to stay at home, I should automatically shut off my brain.

And I don't want to learn how to mop.