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Showing posts from January, 2012

These Things Are Wrong

1. Our local chapter of the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation hosting a pancake breakfast. Let it be known that Type 1s can have pancakes. They may eat anything they want if they inject themselves with the proper amount of insulin. But pancakes are difficult to account for, as are bagels and pizza, rice and potatoes. The glycemic index mixes with the fat content to produce a blood sugar unpredictability that I, for one, avoid when possible. Maybe I would have forgiven JDRF for this fundraiser had it not been for our one visit to their office. At an open house, they served--wait for it--chocolate cake. And soda. And boxes of chocolates. Once again: Type 1s can have their cake and eat it, too. Theo has desserts often. Yet an organization devoted exclusively to the management of blood sugars could maybe come up with something other than cake, chocolates and pop to serve. I pulled out the calculator near Theo's cake, and said, half-jokingly, "You're going to tell us t

For Better Or For Worse, Til Death

I was sad because I had no shoes, until I met a man who had no feet. And I said, "Hey, Footless Dude, guess you won't mind if I take your shoes." --from It's happy bunny: Life. Get One . In the early 90s I managed a professional children's choir, which was often hired to sing at weddings. One Saturday, after rehearsing in the basement of the church, we formed a line and prepared to head upstairs for the ceremony. Except...the door was locked. The director grew flustered. The children scaled the walls to test the windows. But in a time before cell phones, there was nothing we could do but wait. Months into the rehabilitation of a few injuries, all I can do is wait. And I feel a little like Happy Bunny: unable to summon a spirit of gratefulness. I'm not allowed to hit or jump, so boxing's out, which effectively cancels out most of my self-imposed goals and deadlines. Some of which is nice. The break--it's nice. When all this first hit, I acted as

Sweet and Sour Chicken

Do I only write sad posts about diabetes? I suppose if my blog were dedicated to the topic, I might regularly explore all sides (like this kinda fun one ). However, my blog is dedicated to whatever I'm thinking about, and rarely am I thinking anything good about diabetes. Today it made me cry, again. I'd like to point out here that although in the first year since my son's diagnosis of type 1 I was a bit weepy, lately I've been doing well. At our appointment with the endocrinologist Wednesday, not a single tear was shed, except maybe briefly when the diabetes educator mentioned...well, something that may or may not have been related to the disease. But otherwise, I was good. And Theo sat reading a book. Today's tears are hardly worth mentioning had they not caught me so completely off guard. Shortly after noon the school secretary called to say the math I had done for the insulin shot, based on Theo's hot lunch choice of pizza, was now unuseable. The cafeteria

I Found The Answer, And It Only Cost Thirty-Two Dollars

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Well, maybe not the final word, but this here bag has my kids exerting themselves without any prompting from me. This, you'll recall, has been a goal of mine . Maybe we should use a grander word here--a quest , a mission , an Oh-God-I'm-Flunking-Parenting desperate grasp for help. Thank God I ventured out on Black Friday (at night, when Bed Bath And Beyond was as quiet as any other day) and used one of those coupons we all collect like trading cards. A few weeks later I signed up both kids for a Sports Sampler class at the Y. They both....wait for it...loved the class. Stunned, Greg and I asked why. How. Really, you loved it? They did. They just couldn't say why. And that was just fine with us.

Lab Mice

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Two cages side by side, an aging and/or injured mouse in each. We had recently separated our remaining mice, as Bitey (also known as Bully, Bruiser, and all around Bad Mouse) was relentless in his attack on the other, whose name is either Bobby, Frank or Fred , and, post-injury, called Bleedy. Bleedy deserved to live out his days in peace, and so we set about arranging the former cockroach cage for Bad Bruiser. Subsequent days were easier on Bleedy, if a little slow. With no one to chase him, Bleedy, whose wounds were healing but whose fur was falling out, spent much of each day sleeping. Meanwhile, Bad Bitey was often found scratching his head, which looked mangier by the minute. What a way to live--and die , I thought, passing them on my hourly pilgrimage to the laundry room. Not much time left, and some of the spunk is gone. Maybe they could cohabitate once again, peacefully this time? Yesterday I put them in the same cage. The mice were not consulted in this decision. Tw

What Do You Know

The phrase has come up twice now: what you don't know . In March of 2010, in an effort to bridge the gap between the homeless and the housed, I asked the women of The Open Door what they'd say to those outside of the shelter if given the chance. What don't they know? I never thought I'd be in this position. People say, You don't look like you're homeless. What's homeless supposed to look like? Dirty? Everybody gives money to Haiti; people get help if they're homeless because of an earthquake or tornado. But it doesn't matter how you became homeless. You're homeless, and you need help. A guy I know hired me to clean his dad's house. He said, "Don't tell my dad you're homeless or he won't like you." Me and the dad got along great! We had a wonderful time. If I had told him... but it would still be me! I would be the same person as the one he liked. You're not supposed to judge anybody. Some have more,