Teriyucki or Clean Up on Aisle 37

I love a good teriyaki sauce.  So does my family.  And we use enough that I buy it in a huge Costco sized bottle.

I was at Costco last Friday, about half way through my shopping, and I picked up one of those huge bottles of teriyaki sauce.  I used both hands.  But, I made the mistake of grabbing it by the lid.

It’s such a short distance from pallet to cart.  What could possibly go wrong?  Plenty.

I almost had the sauce in my cart.  I’m not even sure what happened.  Maybe my grip wasn’t the best.  Maybe I was distracted.  Who knows.  But before the happy, half-gallon sized concoction of sweet and tangy could land in my cart, it slipped out of my hands and crashed to the floor.

Costco has cement floors.  Hard cement floors.  These are not conducive to cushioning a plastic bottle of teriyaki sauce.

The bottle landed right side up.  Unfortunately, the pressure of the drop caused a volcanic effect.  The lid burst off, the protective liner popped, and a fountain of teriyaki burst forth.  Then, it tipped on its side.

I stood there, stunned.  An older couple was walking down the aisle coming the opposite way. They witnessed the whole thing.  The man started laughing.  The woman hit him in the shoulder and said,”That’s not very nice!”

He sobered up a bit then said, “Dont worry, I won’t tell anyone.  You can walk away and no one will ever know.” Then he winked conspiratorially.

I looked down at my shoes and pants and said, “Well, I think my shoes and pants say otherwise.”  More guffaws.  More beratings.  I righted the bottle in a futile attempt to spare some of the floor.

I walked away as quickly as my sticky teriyaki strewn shoes could carry me trying to find an employee.  Not meeting anyone quickly, I ran to the front of the store.

Along the way, I felt something wet on my rear end.  “No,” I thought, “not possible.”  I gingerly reached my finger back.  It came back wet.  And sticky.  And sweet and tangy.  Yep.  The volcano had even reached my rear.

I ended up checking out as quickly as possible and informing the cashier of my spill He called for a clean up.

I drove home with my sticky feet on the pedals, my old seat cover wadded up under my rear to protect my upholstery.  I had a phone conversation with my mom on the way home, asking if the brand of shoes I was wearing would wash well.  She told me they would, after lots of laughter over my story.

I came home, dashed to the laundry room, took off my shoes, my socks, my pants, even my underwear and my jacket and threw them all in the washer.

I grabbed a dirty towel from the laundry room, wrapped it around my waist and yelled up the stairs to my son, “Close your eyes!”

“What?” he said.

“Just do it!  I don’t have any pants on!”  I pleaded.

The second male in a span of fifteen minutes began to guffaw.  “I thought you were just going to Costco!  How could you possibly lose your pants?”

Teriyucki, my good boy.  Teriyucki.  

My Warrior’s Diaversary

One year.  A year full of ups, downs, and inbetweens.  A year I  never would  have dreamed up.

Still, I wouldn’t trade it.  My little warrior has been diagnosed for a whole year.  She is amazing.  And we are so blessed.

Had she been diagnosed in 1921, she would be dead by now.  One year.  That was all diabetics could expect.  Many got far less than that.

Then, the miracle of insulin in 1922–and countless advances since–have made it so my sweetie can live a long, healthy, wonderful life.

Though I wouldn’t have chosen this for our family, we have grown in so many ways.

Every child has had to learn to give, to share a bit more, to be OK with less of Mom’s time and less of the family resources.  They have been compassionate and understanding nearly all the time.

My husband and I have had to learn all things diabetes, from carb counting, to insulin, to highs and lows.  Syringes and test strips are a part of our life.  I can look at a plate of food and tell you the carb count without even thinking too much about it.  And I was led to the perfect job that allows me to earn some extra income to pay for the astronomical costs of diabetes care and still be able to take care of my angel.

And, my little warrior.  She has learned that her strength is limitless.  She has learned that she can do anything.  She has learned that she has the heart of a warrior, even though she has the pancreas of a diabetic.  She faces this disease unflinchingly every day.  She brings home class treats without even a nibble.  She gives her own shots, tests her own finger, and believes deep down that she won’t have to live with this disease for ever. That some day in her lifetime, they will have a cure.

We’ll be opening a new chapter in her journey with diabetes next week, as she gets her first pump.

Happy Diaversary, beautiful warrior princess.  You are an amazing example to us all.  

A Waking Nightmare (It Wasn’t So Bad)

Just a few days after I brought now eight-year-old home from the hospital with her type 1 diabetes diagnosis, I had a very vivid dream.

In this dream, I was at a hometown buffet. I was looking around the room at all the different food options. I started to sob, “How can I possibly count the carbs on this? I can’t do it!” Then, in my dream, I collapsed in a sobbing heap to the tile floor while diners around me blithely picked up their plates, filled them, and simply walked around the distraught woman on the floor.

Fast forward six months. A good friend was in town from Florida. For some reason she wanted to go to hometown buffet. I think she associates it with the state we live and her time here.

Let me just say, I have never really liked hometown buffet. In my opinion, they overcharge for mediocre food. I would rather have a reasonable portion of excellent food than all I want of so-so food for the same price. My kids and other extended family members disagree. Regardless, we were headed to the buffet.

Before we left, I looked at hubby and said, “I don’t know if I can do this. Counting carbs for eight-year-old when she has unlimited food choices will be really hard. It will be just like my nightmare.”

Hubby said, “Well, just do the best you can. Eight-year-old will be fine.”

So off to the buffet we went. I had eight-year-old fill up her plates (yes, plates plural) with exactly what she wanted to eat. Then, and here is the amazing part, I looked at it, estimated the portion size, calculated the carbs in my head and accounted for the glycemic index of the food. All in about 2 minutes or less. Then, I gave her the insulin shot and she ate a mostly normal meal. Well, except for the fact that it was more carbs than I have ever dosed her for before. And, she had to get all her food at once, instead of deciding whether to go back. And she had to test her blood sugar before so I could take that into account, too. Meal times are really not so “normal” any more.

It is amazing what you can learn in six months when you have to. I never in my wildest dreams, or worst nightmares, thought I could actually look at a plate of food, tell you the carbs, take the glycemic index of the food into account, and then just know how much insulin was necessary. But I did pretty well. She was in the perfect range where her blood sugar should have been that night at bedtime.

Score: full-time pancreas:1, buffet nightmare:0.

So, take that, buffets. You can’t scare me anymore! I lived one of my nightmares, and I survived. Let’s just hope I never have to actually live the naked while speaking in church nightmare. I think that one may just kill me.

Hot Tub from Hades

My hubby and I stole away for a romantic pre-Valentine’s weekend. We had it planned pre-diabetes diagnosis for our seven-year-old, and my wonderful mother agreed to still come and tend all the kids and take on the duties of being a pancreas. She is amazing.

With everything that has been happening, the hubby and I needed to relax, recharge, and rediscover the love that had led to the creation of the crazy fun family from which we were getting a break.

Now, gentle reader, lest you think this post will delve into intimate details, let me reassure you that I will write nothing of the kind. However, if you are adamantly opposed to the idea of a married couple getting into a tub together, skip this post and read another. If, however, you can handle the notion, read on for quite possibly the most unromantic, yet entertaining, hot tub experience that has ever happened in the history of hot tubs.

The bed and breakfast in which we were staying was equipped with a jetted tub for two. Not knowing how long it had been since it had been cleaned, we turned on the jets before getting into the tub ourselves to flush out any impurities.

Impurities we got, in spades. When we had filled the tub up somewhat and turned on the jets, disgusting brown and grey flakes shot out along with the water. I don’t want to speculate on what they were. I prefer to think it was hard water deposits and leave it at that. Otherwise, what happened next is more horrifying than hilarious.

When we saw the flakes come out of the tub, we exclaimed, “Gross!” and attempted to find some sort of cleaning agent we could flush through the system. Nothing was at hand, and while we were searching, the jets really started ramping up their power. What started out as a powerful but tub-bound stream of water soon grew in intensity. It grew so rapidly, we had our own World of Color, right there in our room.

Jets of water were shooting first four, then six, then eight feet out of the tub. The carpet around the tub was soaked before we even registered what was happening. “Turn it off!” I yelled!
“I’m trying!” my poor husband shot back, “the button is stuck!” And stuck it was. Not just sort of stuck but completely, not-moving-at-all stuck. We could not turn off the jets.

“Quick, get me some towels!” my husband yelled as he attempted to cover the geysers shooting from our tub. While he covered the jets, I turned on the water so the level would eventually cover the jets.

After about five long minutes, the water filled enough to keep the jets from shooting out of the tub. But by that time, the footboard of our bed was soaked, along with the clothes that were hanging off the end of it. The bags we had packed, even though they were zippered shut, got soaked enough that the clothes inside were wet.

You may ask why we didn’t simply call the front desk as soon as we knew the jets were stuck. Good question. Why? My husband had already disrobed. We were, after all, planning on getting in the tub.

Yep. I still have the perfect image of him getting sprayed all over, attempting to hold back the Niagara Falls of jetted tubs with a couple of bath towels. All while wearing only his birthday suit. I had not yet taken off my clothing, but I wish I would have since it got soaked during my failed attempts to help him. A small (OK, more than just a small) part of me wanted to simply get out my phone and snap a pic of the hubs bending over with arms spread wide, towels somewhat effectively pressed on the jets all while naked as the day he was born. I resisted the impulse however.

Hopefully, you weren’t just drinking, or your beverage may have shot out of your nose as powerfully as the jets shot from our tub. Sorry, I won’t be responsible for any damages.

After finding clothing way at the bottom of my bag that was sort of dry, I went down to the front desk to tell them what had happened. The lady was super nice, said she was, “horrified and so sorry” and then proceeded to say she would come up to clean the tub “right then.”

Swallowing the giggle that had momentarily escaped, I told her to let me give my husband some warning, ran upstairs and told him to put on the driest thing he had (a robe and a pair of sweats that came from the depths of his carry-on that were still pretty wet).

The front desk lady came in, proceeded to start cleaning the tub and actually said, in what was an attempt, I’m sure, to lessen the emabarrassment for all of us, “Just pretend I’m not here.”

Hmmm. If she had really thought about that statement, I’m sure she didn’t mean it. After 20 minutes of scrubbing and using W-D-40 to get the jets switch unstuck, she finally left, telling us that the owners wanted to comp us a future stay.

Being the frugal people that we are, we took them up on it. But, I don’t think we’ll be using the tub during our next stay.

The Elephants in the Duct Work

A few days ago, four-year-old was on the vent in the morning, getting warmed up as the heat blew in from below. She loves getting a blankie, throwing it over the top of her and having the warm air blast her all around.

Four-year-old was enjoying the moment until the air turned off. “Mommy,” she frowned, “the elephants went back to sleep!”

“What?” I asked, certain I hadn’t heard her correctly.

“The elephants stopped blowing,” she repeated. “I guess they went back to sleep.”

“Oh, what do the elephants do?” I asked.

“The elephants live in our vents. They blow their trunks to warm us up. Sometimes they blow cold air and sometimes they blow warm air, whatever we want.”

“Oh, I see. And how does it all work?” I wondered.

“Well, they blow when they aren’t asleep, or eating or playing. And if I sing to them, they will blow their trunks and keep me warm.”

“Ah,” I smiled, “that makes sense.”

Seven year old, listening to the whole exchange, was stage whispering to me, “Mom, why don’t you just tell her? Isn’t there some kind of fan or something that blows the air? It is not
elephants”

I took seven-year-old aside and exclaimed, “Sorry, but I’m not going to tell her. That idea is just too cute. Let her believe there are elephants at her beck and call, waiting to blow their trunks just for her. It’s adorable!”

Seven-year-old rolled her eyes at me and huffed, clearly exasperated that I would let such a fallacy stand.

But really, elephants blowing their trunks to keep her warm? And when she sings to them? Could it get any more imaginative and endearing?

I like the idea. Elephants.

Of course, if elephants actually were in the duct work, I’d have to have my ducts cleaned a bit more often.

The First Week Home

Several people have been asking me how seven-year-old and I are doing since we’ve been home from the hospital for a week post type 1 diabetes diagnosis. We are both doing well. Seven-year-old is really taking everything in stride. Though she doesn’t want the shots, she still doesn’t complain about them. She is happy, healthy and ready for what this new life will bring her. She did say, “Mom, my life has changed a lot, hasn’t it? Life for our whole family has changed, hasn’t it?” I simply had to say, “Yes, it has, but nothing has changed about how much you are loved by everyone, and that never will.” She gave me a hug and went on her way.
Now to the more complicated question of how I am doing. I really am doing better, but let me see if I can explain how I’m feeling. I feel like those women who go in to the hospital with abdominal pain and get told, “You’re pregnant and about to give birth. Surprise!” Only, the “baby” I was handed is a sick, demanding one–a parasite, not a child, who will harm the child I love with my entire being if I don’t do everything it requires.
So, if I seem a little off my game, please try to understand; I am like the shell-shocked mom of a newborn, a mom who had no idea she was even pregnant. You wouldn’t ask too much of her, would you? You wouldn’t expect that everything she used to do without even thinking about it would simply continue to be done without things being dropped and forgotten. I am talking to myself, actually, not all of you. I know most people aren’t expecting much of me right now. But I continue to expect everything of myself. And maybe I shouldn’t.
So very many people have helped us out with meals, babysitting, gifts, and support in all sorts of ways, from putting away Christmas décor to writing out recipes when food was brought in so I would know exactly what was in it. Thank you for being my angels on earth, the ones God has sent to me in my time of need. I promise to do the same for  you someday.
Mostly, I’m just so proud of my sweetie. She thanks me when I give her a shot, even if it hurts her. Could there be a better child?
Seven-year-old was having a more difficult time with one of her insulin shots the other day. She hates injections in her thighs. It was time for the thigh shot, and she was getting super upset. I told her, “You are a warrior.” Then, I pointed to her sharps container and said, “Look at that jar. It’s your warrior jar. Each of the things in there represent a poke you’ve had. It shows just how strong you are.” So she asked me to take some tape and label it as her “Warrior Jar.” Here it is:

This is the face of a newly christened type 1 diabetes warrior. And I am the proud captain cheering on my soldier, fighting her way through this new battle, with her every step of the way. I love you, my little warrior. We’ll fight this war hand in hand, with arms folded and heads bowed, together forever more.

How Bedwetting Saved My Child’s Life

Seven-year-old suddenly started wetting the bed a few weeks ago after not having done so for many years. The first night, I thought it was odd, the second, I was annoyed. The third, I figured she must have a urinary tract infection so I hauled her in the doctor’s office. She very cautiously peed into the obligatory cup and the urine sample results came back. No sign of infection, glucose was present, but no ketones. The doctor asked, “Is there any history of diabetes in your family?” “No,” I replied, as my heart sank. “Any history of kidney or liver problems?” “No,” I said again. “Well, we’ll send her for some labs.”
Since we went in the day after Christmas, labs couldn’t come until the following Monday. They showed everything was good. At least it was if they didn’t know my child was fasting, which I had told the technician and the doctor’s office but somehow that wasn’t communicated. When the results finally came on Wednesday, they told us to make a follow-up appointment for after the New Year.
On Monday, I checked seven-year-old out of school for her appointment. She nervously peed into a cup again. The results were the same. High glucose, no ketones. This time a doctor whom I don’t normally see greeted us and said,”I just want to call endocrinology. And, I think I’ll do a rapid blood glucose here.” So she did. And the result were 411. For those of you who aren’t blood glucose savvy, a normal range is 80-150. “I’m so sorry”, the doctor said, who happens to have my same first name so I felt an instant connection, “but it looks like your daughter has type 1 diabetes. I am going to call the children’s hospital and see what they want me to do.” After another half hour of waiting for someone to get back to her from the hospital, they told us to come, now, for a direct admit.
That was two days ago. I walked into the doctor’s office with a perfectly healthy child who just wanted to get back to school for PE. I walked out of the doctor’s office with a the same, sweet wonderful child who, I was told, has a chronic disease— one that will affect her, and our whole family, for the rest of her life.
I was shocked, but I wasn’t devastated. How can I be when I feel so blessed? We caught her juvenile or insulin dependent or type 1–whatever you want to call it–diabetes before she had any major issues or life-threatening episodes. How many parents can say that? She was still fine until New Year’s, so we got to enjoy our holiday and start the treatment with the beginning of a new deductible instead of having half of it in December.
I have felt so many angels supporting me these past forty-eight hours. I know people have been praying for me. I could feel heaven close around my “bed” as I tried and failed to get some sleep in the hospital. And I could feel the army of angels around my little girl. They stood as sentinels, watching her bedside, making sure she was safe and sound.

Seven-year-old is being such a trooper. She got out of the hospital last night and wanted to go back to school today. So, I got my first try at being her pancreas at school. I forgot the pen needle cap for her insulin pen, had to go home and come back. Score 1, Diabetes, 0, Mom. But still, I am going to get this. I have so many people offering help, meals, advice, love. Everything is falling into place for my sweet little angel.
So, if your child ever starts wetting the bed after not having done it for a long time, don’t ignore it. Take them in, immediately.

And ask your doctor to check for type 1 diabetes. Maybe bedwetting could save your child’s life

Sharing is Caring

I had a birthday last week. It was a fun day filled with presents and time spent with family. My hubby and I went to go see Mockinjay Part 2, so I wasn’t at home when my wonderful neighbor and her daughter came over and brought me cupcakes and a sweet card.
The cupcakes came in a fun container of six. I was surprised and delighted with the meaningful gesture, just perfect for my family of six. I looked at those cupcakes and smiled, amazed that my kids had managed not to eat them while I was away.
The first words out of four-year-old’s mouth when I got home weren’t happy birthday. They were, “Mommy! Someone brought you cupcakes, and you can share them if you want to!”
I laughed and didn’t give more of a response. Four-year-old persisted, “Do you want to share them, Mommy, or are you going to eat them all by yourself?”
I looked into those sweet eyes and said, “What do you think I should do?”
She turned back, looked at the ground and said, “Well, I guess whatever you want to do.”
Then, I asked, “What do you want me to do?”
Beaming up at me, she jumped in the air and yelled, “Share!”
“Don’t worry, I’m going to share them,” I assured her. Even though they looked delicious, I wasn’t going to eat all of them myself. How could I when four-year-old was so excited, so happy to have me share a cupcake. And really, birthdays are all about sharing joy with those you love. Happy Birthday to me.

Best T-Shirts I Saw in Disneyland Part II

This summer we went back to the happiest place on earth.  I love shopping there.  Here are some of the funniest t-shirts I saw there.  Some were in stores, some were on people in line.  Most are Disney, but all are fun.

1.

front of shirt

back of shirt

Gas Pump Boogie

I am guilty of doing some strange things while I pump gas. No, I haven’t tried to see if I can actually use static electricity to start a fire though I’ve been mildly tempted. But, I guess I get bored when I’m pumping gas.

My obsession with being a little off normal at the pump started when my kids were little. I would put in the pump, stare off into the distance, then randomly make faces at them through the window. Turn away again, turn back and have a different funny face at the ready. Lots of giggles and smiles came my way, so I still keep it up. My seven-year-old and four-year-old still laugh. My older two either roll their eyes or try to come up with a face that will outdo mine. Pumping gas is entertaining.

But, the other day, I found myself with no one in the back seat to make faces at. I only had my oldest in the front seat, and he couldn’t see my face, so my usual form of entertainment was not an option. Apparently, I can’t just hold a gas pump and just stand there. So, I found myself listening to the the gurgling sound as the gas whooshed into my tank.

The next time you pump gas, listen to it come out. It actually has a nice rhythm. One I couldn’t help but dance to. I found myself swaying my hips back and forth, and nodding my head up and down to the sic beat of the gas pump. My unoccupied hand might have even gotten in on the action, though I won’t confirm or deny that.

I guess I forget when I’m in public everyone can see me. Three men in a pick-up truck pulled up behind me and doubled over laughing when they saw my sashaying behind. Luckily my tank was filled before any of them could get their phones out or I might have been the next youtube sensation.

I only hope you can also appreciate the subtle rhythm of the gas pump; it will amuse you, and those around you, if you can.