#showmeyourpump

Oh, where to begin?

Last we spoke, I detailed our recent trip to Dallas, the highlight of which I gush about here.  If you don't want to read the whole post, here's a summary:  Trey & I went to see Queen & Adam Lambert in concert, & it was fabulous.  Hmmmm.  Reading that summary, I have to encourage you to read the whole post if you've the inclination, because the summary does not do the event justice.  Even when I type FABULOUS! this way, I feel more words are needed to convey the epic evening.

Anyway, what I didn't tell you is that I desperately needed the night out to listen to Adam & mellow (no drugs were used in the mellowing process) because when we returned home from Dallas, we travelled to Jackson to meet with a trainer & transition Reagan from a MDI diabetic to a pumper.  MDI, for those who aren't versed in the language of diabetes, is an individual who receives their insulin via multiple daily injections.

I've known since Reagan's diagnosis that we'd be pumping within the year.  Everyone raves about the pump, especially Reagan's doctor (the one in Jackson with the MD behind her name, not me).  I've spent the past month or so sending emails, filling out paperwork, making phone calls, & generally completing tasks that no one cares to do, tasks that are made particularly difficult by two young children who don't stop making demands because mom's trying to jump through all the necessary hoops to ensure our pump of choice arrives at the door, along with the supplies necessary to make pump magic happen.

The day before we left for Dallas, after a few months of researching various pumps & weeks of phone conversations about acquiring the one I chose, Reagan's pump was delivered to our house.  I'd been telling Reagan it was coming, & that it was for her & it would give her her medicine in lieu of shots.  She of course asked me what lieu means.

Needless to say, she was eager to get her hands on the pump.

The pump we went with is made by Animas, a company headquartered in West Chester, Pennsylvania.  I'm not going to go into all the details about why I wanted this pump, but at the top of the list of selling points for the Animas pump are, (1) it comes with a remote & (2) it is waterproof.  

Pump on the left, remote on the right:

The remote is my new toy.  It has many functions, but my favorite is that it allows me to give Reagan a bolus dose of insulin for food she's about to eat without having to touch her, or her pump.  This is particularly wonderful in a restaurant, or anytime she's wearing complicated clothing that would have to be lifted for me to access her pump.  Or anytime she's behaving like a three-year-old who doesn't want anyone messing with her while she colors.    

I realize I just used the word bolus.  Here's the thing: Obviously I can't make it far into this post without using a few diabetic-centric terms, so sit down & take notes, because we're going to school for a few minutes.  There are two ways insulin is delivered, & this is true for everyone, whether the insulin comes from your pancreas or a pump.  A bolus dose is a large amount of insulin that's delivered at once, in a rush, to cover food that is eaten.  The second way insulin is delivered is referred to as the basal dosage, which is a constant, tiny ping of insulin your pancreas is always emitting to keep your blood sugar at a steady, healthy level.  Reagan's pump, by the way, is called the Animas Ping.  It's all the same insulin; it only varies in amount.  

The above is important for you to know because what is currently consuming my life is figuring out Reagan's needed basal rates.  Today's word of the day is BASAL.  I'll use it in a sentence:  Before Reagan began pumping insulin, she received a shot of buffered insulin once a day that covered, in theory, her basal insulin needs.  The main reasons the pump is superior to a shot of buffered insulin (which is time-released) to meet basal insulin needs are that, (1) the pump mimics the way the pancreas emits insulin, constantly & in small increments & (2) various basal rates can be set during the course of a twenty-four hour day.  No one needs the same amount of basal insulin all day long.  When Reagan was receiving one shot to cover her basal needs, there was no way to adjust the dosage; six units didn't quite cut it in the morning after breakfast, when her basal needs are at their highest, but was often too much at times while she was sleeping, & she'd dip too low.  It was maddening.  

If you're not diabetic, or you've never cared for a diabetic, what I am about to say likely means a lot less to you than it does to me, but my greatest joy in life right now is that, because of her pump, I have the ability to adjust Reagan's basal insulin rates.  I can cut her basal rate in half, or by any percentage I designate, for an amount of time I specify.  I can shut off the basal dosage completely for a period of time if she's too low & not rising.  I am like a kid in a basal insulin candy store.  I currently have four rates set during the course of a twenty-four hour day, but I tweak the amounts daily.  At six in the morning, her pump begins to give her more basal insulin in preparation for the massive natural rise she has in the morning.  At four in the afternoon, & again at eight o'clock at night, the basal rate is lowered incrementally to make sure she remains high enough while she sleeps, & at least in theory, Trey & I sleep as well.  

You don't even want to know how crazy my anal-retentative self is about nailing down these basal rates.  I think I'm close, but then I get a random high or low, & I have to go back to the drawing board & decide if the off number can be attributed to something other than the basal rate, or if there needs to be another basal adjustment.  Once I feel her basal rates are where they need to be, I am going to go work for NASA.  No, seriously, I believe that if an army of mothers who've cared for diabetic children could be sent to the Middle East, something miraculous might happen.  Presidents & politicians & diplomats are great & all, but gather together a few women whose accomplishments include, "accurately determined my child's basal insulin rates," & sit back & watch; let them tackle our budget woes, because they can work the numbers.    

Now that you are asleep more thoroughly understand my excitement over the commencement of pumping insulin, here's how it all went down.  A week ago, on Wednesday, July 16, six months to the day of her diagnosis in January of this year, we took Reagan to Jackson.  For three hours, we met with a nurse who works for Animas, & we left with Reagan receiving insulin via her pump.  

We immediately headed to our favorite outdoor mall in Jackson for a late lunch, where I remotely instructed the pump to deliver the amount of insulin Reagan needed to cover her food.  

After eating, we visited the Learning Express toy store, an establishment I forecast will rake in a small fortune over the years as we travel quarterly to visit Reagan's pediatric endocrinologist (in diabetes language, that's a ped endo).  

She quickly discovered their Frozen display.  I cannot talk about Frozen right now; let's just say that I'd prefer to be figuring out basal insulin rates. 

Another number for you: eighty-two.  It was eighty-two degrees when we got in the car to drive home.  July 16 - - Mississippi - - eighty-two degrees - - five-thirty in the afternoon.  It was a day for miracles.   

Since we returned home, things have gone well.  Pump, pump, pump.  It's always pumping (much like a pancreas).  Saturday, we went to my Aunt Donna & Uncle Bryan's house for a gathering-o-cousins.  The afternoon's key event was a drama featuring Reagan, her cousin Will, & his new motorized jeep.  It went a little something like this (feel free to insert your own captions):

Henry saw no jeep action.  Donna & Bryan recently added a luxurious pool room adjacent their pool where Jessica & I want to live we all lounged.  

Henry in a glass case of emotion:

Annnd the inevitable attempts to capture a shot of two three-year-olds & two infants with their great-grandfather:

Henry is DONE:

Monday, while Jessa & Maisie were still in town, we took the kids to the pool.  Before the pool outing, when I'd bathed Reagan I placed the pump on the side of the tub.  It got wet, but wasn't submerged in water.  I'd been assured numerous times that it is waterproof, but I just couldn't dunk it completely in water while she was in the bath (somehow I don't think the rice trick would work with an insulin pump).  Monday, I faced a moment of pump truth.  I had to either disconnect her (which is a possibility for a short while), or let it go - - ah! I hate to use that phrase  - - & trust what I'd been told regarding the steadfastness of the pump in water.  I smiled, clipped it to the back of her suit, & trusted that it would continue to function as her pancreas.  All was, & is, well with her pink pancreas.

Miss Maisie was uncharacteristically gleeful about her time in the water:

Henry, per his usual, was fine as long as he was eating something:

Before I close I need to introduce my parents older &/or technologically unsavvy readers to yet another new term: hashtag.  Did you think I typed the title of this post in haste?  I did not.  If you've not yet been introduced to her, this is the current Miss Idaho, Sierra Sandison:

Google her name & you can take your pick of news articles covering her recent decision to wear her insulin pump on her bikini while competing in a beauty pageant scholarship competition.  She was encouraged to post a picture to her social media accounts, & other pumpers began to post pics of their pumps, tagging them with the hashtag #showmeyourpump.  A hashtag is used as a search tool on Twitter & other social media.  It's a means by which related posts can be easily located.  If you're on Twitter, search #showmeyourpump.  I did.  It's encouraging to a mom who's recently hooked her three-year-old up to the device that will serve as her pancreas for the foreseeable future.

I have to point out that in the background of diabetic Miss Idaho's infamous photo is a sign advertising Idaho potatoes.  Anyone else think this is hilarious?  Anyone?  

#potatoeshavetonsofcarbs   

I feel a series of thank-yous are now in order.  Thank you, Sierra Sandison, for the choice you made that has inspired pumpers worldwide.  While wearing a bikini in a pageant (or anywhere, for that matter) is not something I will ever encourage Reagan to do, I do want her to forge ahead with life with no qualms about herself or the pump she wears, so thank you, Miss Sandison, for doing just that, no doubt giving a much needed boost of confidence to little pumping girls everywhere.

Thank you to the Animas employees.  I've had only positive experiences with this company's employees.  I currently am in contact with a nurse who will follow-up with us for six weeks as we adjust to pumping.  Her name is Lisa.  I'll likely never meet her, but I like her as she's as determined as I am to discover Reagan's needed insulin regimen.

Thank you to the engineers who developed & continue to perfect the technology that makes this pump possible.  It is an amazing little gadget.  The work you do matters a great deal; it not only changes lives, it improves their quality & in many cases, extends them.   

Thank you to my family, particularly Reagan, Trey, my mother, & my mother-in-law, who tolerate me while I drag us all through basal hell.  

Thank you to the Lord God that my child & I live in a time & place where accessing what is needed to manage diabetes is possible.  

Clearly, the pump has temporarily taken over my life.  I have not yet watched the final hour of Jack Bauer, which aired a week & a half ago.  I don't know how the season ends, so please, don't tell me!  I plan to wrap up Jack's day one night later this week.  I did finish reading Tatiana & Alexander, the second of three books in the series that's hijacked my emotions this summer.  I've inundated you with enough already, so I won't say much about the book.  I'm not emotionally ready to anyway; I have so many, many feelings, & while I have downloaded the third & final book, I am not reading it yet.  I get in bed at night, & I want to read it because I miss my friends, Tatiana & Alexander, but foreshadowing does not escape me & I know where this third book is headed & it's not a place I can travel while so much mystery surrounds Reagan's basal rates.

I'm holding back on you.  Yesterday, Henry stayed with his Grandmama for the better part of the day while Reagan & I pumped all over town.  Lunch.  Pump.  Oil change.  Pump.  Target.  Pump.  Chick-fil-A.  Pump.  Groceries.  Pump.  The details of that adventure will have to wait though, in part because I am tired, & also because the day involved Frozen paraphernalia that I am not ready to discuss.  I know what I can handle, & what I cannot, & right now, I am unprepared to complete Tatiana & Alexander's journey, & I am equally unprepared to discuss Frozen paraphernalia.  I bid you farewell.   I now return to the labyrinth of calculating basal rates.

AZ

Summer's Soundtrack

There's something I need to tell you.

Okay, here goes.

The only American Idol contestant I have ever voted for is Adam Lambert.

I voted for him every week during season eight.  A lot.  Redial, redial, redial.  Redial.  Redial, redial.  I was living with my parents in the months before I got married, I had no kids & few responsibilities, & things like ensuring Adam Lambert made it through to the next round of American Idol were at the top of my priority list.  Before I continue, the catty twenty-eight year old in me just has to say to all the Kris Allen & Danny Gokey fans: where are Kris & Danny today?  I don't know, but I do know where they are not, & that is fronting for Queen.

I realize this may shock you, conservative me championing the outlandish, controversial Adam Lambert.  I don't always love his wardrobe choices, or his eyeliner technique, but the man can sing.  He is immensely talented.  While I have your attention, let me say this: before you give me an earful about my Adam love, please do realize that it's likely every entertainer you listen to, watch, laugh at, cry with, & flock to the theater to see is not an individual you hope your children will emulate.  They may not wear leather pants, studded jackets, or an awesome leopard print suit while singing "We Are the Champions," but few & far between are the entertainers whose personal lives are worthy of praise.  I can recognize & appreciate talent.  

So I've outed myself as a Glambert.  I feel so free.  As Adam's star was rising on Idol, my sister & I  feverishly looked up old YouTube videos of him, & I was sold.  He can sing anything, & he can do it better than you ever thought possible.  As I'm sure you well remember, season eight of American Idol concluded with a spectacular show featuring Adam singing "We Are the Champions" with Queen.  Unfortunately, Kris Allen was also singing, and oh my goodness was it obvious for whom Queen had agreed to play the Idol finale (hint: it was not Kris Allen).  Regardless of the vote total, it was quite clear who was the champion.  Since season eight of Idol concluded, I have harbored a dream.  I got married, I had two kids, & life continued to move, but yet, the dream never died, & last Thursday night, it became a reality.    

A few months ago, I saw a news article announcing that Adam Lambert would be touring with Queen.  This was an announcement I'd been braced for for five years.  I glanced at the cities on the tour, & right there on the list was Dallas.  Dallas, Texas, a quick car ride away.  My heart began to beat a little faster at this point.  A few nights later as Trey was sitting & eating dinner, I casually asked if he'd be interested in seeing Queen in concert.  I was prepared for a 'No,' but this is what he said, "Yeah, sure.  You know Brian May has a PhD & makes his own guitars."  Well, no, no I did not know that, but good for Brian May, or rather, Dr. Brian May.  And with that random bit of trivia, the dream I'd dreamed for five years was made official.  By official, I mean I wrote it on the Pottery Barn chalkboard I use to keep my head on straight:

"July 10: Queen."  I didn't add, "& Adam Lambert," because Trey was less excited about that part, while I was not as awed as Trey deemed necessary that Brian May makes his own guitars.  See why we make a great pair?

Queen's music has been the soundtrack to a considerable amount of the walking & the little bit of running I've done these past few months in pursuance of my weight loss goals.  Queen has an impressive catalogue of hits, & they make for great inspiration for a mom trying to lose baby weight & also, if only for an hour or so, forget everything.  "We Are the Champions," "Another One Bites the Dust," "We Will Rock You," "Somebody to Love," & my personal faves while exercising, "Under Pressure," "I Want to Break Free," & yes, "Fat Bottomed Girls" have spurred me on all summer.

Ready to rock, last Thursday we all loaded up & headed to Dallas.  My mom accompanied us so she could sit with the kids at Jessica & Heath's house while Trey & I were at the concert.  I thought about it & thought about it, & no one is comfortable with the idea of Trey & me leaving Reagan overnight yet.  Maybe one day.  I wouldn't have slept, the babysitting grandparents wouldn't have slept, & Trey, well, Trey may've slept, but my mom & I decided the best option was for her to come with the four of us.

Trey in his pre-Adam Lambert euphoria:

We made a quick stop at Jessica & Heath's to unload everyone who wasn't attending the concert.  After brief insulin instructions for my mom, I told Reagan to behave & that we'd see her later.  She asked where we were going, & I think I said, "Your daddy & I want to break free."  The whole weekend was full of such fun.  Trey & I then headed toward the American Airlines Center, stopping at a burger place Trey loves on the way.  Smashburger.  I just remembered the name.  It was a decent burger; I was most impressed with the option to eat a side salad rather than fries.  The salad was wonderful, too - good green lettuce (no crummy iceberg lettuce), diced tomatoes & cucumbers, etc. 

I snapped this of Trey while we were eating.  You can see the anticipation of what's ahead on his face! 

  

The concert was scheduled to start at 7:30.  Being the responsible Queen fans we are, Trey & I arrived at the American Airlines Center at 6:30, & after I talked myself out of a $40 T-shirt & bought a cup of coffee instead, we were in our seats, our floor seats, by 6:50.  Believe it or not, not many concert-going Queen fans drink coffee.  The lady working the concession didn't know what to charge me for it because I think it was the only cup they sold all night.

I sat & sipped my coffee & Trey & I people watched.  You know what's almost as fantastic as sitting & listening to Adam Lambert & Queen for two hours?  Sitting & watching the people who're attending the concert.  The longer I sat & watched, the more foolish I felt.  For starters, coffee was not what everyone else was drinking.  On top of that, Trey & I were both fully clothed, we hadn't brought masks or crowns to wear, nor did we have any visible ink showing.  Trey commented on the sheltered life we lead, & also remarked that, sitting there, surrounded by our fellow concert-goers, it was no mystery how Obama was elected president not once, but twice (when the majority of people you know work, pay taxes, opt not to wear sheer shirts & Mardi Gras masks to concerts, or ever, & are not still mourning Freddie Mercury, the outcome of national elections can sometimes leave you perplexed).

Trey's pontificating was interrupted by a slightly inebriated woman in a tight white body suit regaling the kind usher stationed near our seats with the story of where she was when she learned Freddie Mercury died.  Tears were shed.  Beer was spilled.  Hearing was damaged.

If you've ever wondered what a conservative mom of two looks like eagerly awaiting Queen & Adam Lambert to take the stage, here you go (photo courtesy of Trey, who declined to stand & have me take his pic):

Finally, the lights dimmed, plumes of smoke billowed from the stage, & a deafening roar rose from the crowd as the legendary Queen took the stage, accompanied by their fabulous new frontman.  Adam's voice live is phenomenal (it's clear to me I am going to run out of adjectives in this post).  The concert was incredible.  But no, concert is not the right word.  What Queen & Mr. Lambert are bringing to cities across North America is a visual & auditory spectacle, like something you'd see on Broadway or in Vegas.  The internet is replete with rave reviews of the show, but this links to a glowing article about the Dallas stop on the tour.

I took a few pictures during the concert, but as you might imagine, the lighting wasn't optimal.  If you're truly interested in good images of the concert & a detailed look at Adam's many costume changes, photos are everywhere online.  I think my favorite look was his last.  You might not think a grown man wearing a leopard print suit & a big gold crown would be a good look, but when he's belting out "We Will Rock You" & "We Are the Champions" while accompanied by Brian May, it works.  I mean what else would you wear in such a situation?

I won't relive the whole two hours for you.  I know some of you just do not care at all & would rather me blather on about what's happening with my Russian solider.  I'll just say that it was the best concert I've attended.  Admittedly, I haven't been to all that many concerts, but I have seen the Eagles & U2 live, & while I love the Eagles & their music is my go-to, Queen's stuff is so grandiose (as is Adam) & meant to be performed & enjoyed in an arena setting, & in that setting it was just amazing.  I like Queen's music, but I've never enjoyed it as much as I did Thursday night.  

Then, once it was all over & because we are sophisticated, on the drive back to Jessica & Heath's house Trey & I discussed Freddie Mercury's overbite, & had a brief argument about whether or not he was bisexual.

Friday morning, Trey rose early, showered, & took off on a tour of various Cabela's locations in the DFW area.  With considerably less haste, my mom, Jessica, & I readied the children for a few hours at the mall.

Henry did well Friday as long as he was in this stroller & could wave & kick his legs at everyone walking toward him.  Henry's favorite Queen song is "It's a Hard Life."

Reagan was dismayed that we made her sit & eat lunch before allowing her to run rampant in the Disney store & ride the merry-go-round, which I think she rode a total of five times before the day was done.  Reagan's favorite Queen song is "I Want It All," which as you may know goes a little something like this . . . I want it all, I want it all, and I want it now.  Admittedly, before Trey points it out, yes, Reagan & I have similar taste in music. 

Finally, Reagan made it to the Disney store where she ended up sitting a bit & watching sing-a-long videos of the songs from Frozen.  Nana & her fresh cup of coffee also enjoyed the sing-a-long. 

One of the day's five rides on the merry-go-round:

The mall is a great option for people with kids because there's a lot to see & do & eat, & it's all housed under one roof, eliminating the need to strap & unstrap, & strap & unstrap kids in their car seats when it's nearing the century mark outside.

Without having to load everyone up in the vehicles, we strolled right into The Cheesecake Factory for an early dinner Friday.  Heath joined us, having been at work all day, & Trey also joined us, having spent hours scouring Dallas for deals on guns he does not need & knows he could never justify purchasing, despite the evening he spent with me & Adam Lambert.   

A little cousin bonding while waiting for our food.  Henry is not in these pics because that would have required him to leave my side, which is something he rarely does, & not without considerable protest:

Walking off dinner:

It was a good weekend.  Everyone had their moment in the sun.  I saw Adam & Queen live, Trey enjoyed a Smashburger & was given free reign to search the DFW area for guns, Henry smiled & waved from his stroller as if in a parade, & Reagan rode the merry-go-round over & over & over again, with a Frozen sing-a-long thrown in for good measure.   

I hope the bold step I've taken out of my Glambert closet hasn't irreparably damaged the heretofore high opinion you held of me.  At this point, if you're still hanging around & reading, I figure you're not easily offended & likely can handle the fact that I, champion of conservative causes, obsessive fiction reading, & great coffee, need a little Queen in my life, & by Queen I of course mean Adam Lambert.           

AZ

Perspective

A Quilt for the Fourth

Intellectually, I am aware that people, a few people, read this blog (hi, Mom!).  I don't want to hurt any feelings, or step on any proverbial toes, & I love that you read, but I keep up the blog for my kids, who will reap the benefits of my wisdom (or at least have something tangible to show their therapist), & for, well, me.  I like to write, & I like organization, & blogger is an amazing tool that allows me to combine the two.

With that said, after blogging for over three years, I am quitting.




Ah, I kid.  I remain curiously flattered that people read, & am often flummoxed when blog content is mentioned in the real world.  It's usually a George Costanza, worlds are colliding moment for me.  These moments are occurring with some regularity lately, & several questions have come my way, & I'm going to delve into their answers below.

I didn't see all that many people last weekend, but was surprised by how many times I was asked about the outcome of last Friday's big book club meeting.  Overall, it was a success.  We ate cookies & drank coffee, & for two hours, there were no toys on my living room floor.

For those of you not fortunate enough to attend, a snap shot of book club:

Below is my living room:

Do you see all those toys on the floor?


Me either.


No one raved about A Farewell to Arms, but thoughtful comments were made.  The consensus, I'd say, was that they felt scholarly for having read Hemingway.  I'll take it.  As soon as I finished reading A Farewell to Arms, I headed to the Soviet Union, & that's where I remain, so the book club ladies were given a reprieve from a lecture lively soliloquy on why the novel is fantastic; I can only thoroughly obsess over one book at a time.  We did discuss my having not read Pride and Prejudice, & have decided to read it in December of this year.  Everyone knows married women with small kids want Mr. Darcy for Christmas, so we're gifting ourselves this year.

At the end of May, I posted this little manifesto that, in retrospect, highlights a short list of goals I set for myself, with the understanding that should I accomplish nothing on the list, I am still fabulous.

My manifesto contains a short-term reading list I generated, because lists make me feel warm inside (but not as warm as checking items off a list).  One thing I do love about the blog is the conversations about books it generates.  If you read the blog, you are well aware of what I am currently reading because I do not shut up about it.  In fact, I suspect some use the blog as a gauge indicating whether striking up a conversation with me is a good idea or not . . . She's reading another war novel . . . quick, turn and go out that back door.

Last Sunday morning I was with Henry in the nursery at church & was talking with a friend who told me she wanted to sit & write a rebuttal to my review of The Fault in Our Stars, which recently shifted from my 'to-read' list to my 'read' list on Goodreads.  Her desire to reply to my little rant about the book was like a shot of adrenaline for me.  If you're reading, kind friend, & you do find the time to sit & type it out, let me know because I will post it here & you can be my first guest blogger.  Won't we all feel fancy then?

So, I have read The Fault in Our Stars (check).  I reread A Farewell to Arms (check).  I have read The Bronze Horseman (check), as you well know.  I have not read Anna Karenina, & I'm not beating myself up over it, given that I am in the middle of a three-book series by a Russian author whose authorial goal is clearly to use as many words as possible.  I'm currently splitting time between American & Soviet soil in the second book, Tatiana and Alexander.  Every few thousand words, I fall a little deeper in love with Alexander, & curse the Soviets, & the Germans, & refill my coffee, & repeat the process.  My goal is to read the third & final book, The Summer Garden, before my teaching duties commence in August.  I usually try & slow myself down when reading the final book in a series because I know once I finish that last book, it's all over, my dalliance with the Soviets will end, & I'll have to tell Edward Peeta Alexander goodbye.

Still on the reading list are Ron Rash's Serena, & a recent suggestion, Emily Giffin's The One & Only.  

Moving past the reading, twice in as many weeks I've been asked about a sequel to Dear Miss Moreau.  Yikes.  Alexander has temporarily usurped Dr. Foster's place in the addled space in my brain reserved for fictional men for whom I will labor into the wee hours of the morning.  I've written a little.  The word count hasn't ticked up significantly, however, I have worked out a few issues that were stumping me, so I'm sure you're ecstatic about that.  It's tricky when you keep writing for the same characters, & the conflict in their story is no longer their unexpressed, but deeply felt feelings for each other.  But, conflict comes in many shapes & sizes (don't worry; I am not sending anyone to war, or Russia).  

Another item on the manifesto is weight loss.  I have lost weight; I have lost about ten pounds (check).  I can't very well preach self-discipline & then do nothing about the weight I wish to lose, right?  That would make me a liberal hypocrite.  I am happy with the loss thus far, but am not done shrinking myself.  It hasn't been incredibly difficult, but I think it will become so as I attempt to lose another ten pounds.  The first ten had been hanging around nonchalantly, very noncommittal, since Henry was born, & it wasn't all that stubborn about falling off.  The second ten has been with me longer, & I don't think it's going to be all that excited about its departure.  I exercise, & I eat less & better.  No fancy diet or anything.  I try to limit the amount of bread, pasta, potatoes, & sweets I eat.  If I eat carbs in excess, it's fruit.  My snacks are Reagan's snacks: carrots, cucumbers, almonds, cheese.  Knowing how many carbs are in things comes in handy; I often visualize the insulin I'd have to draw up were I feeding Reagan something, & that is an incredibly helpful tool, I've discovered.  Also helpful are these flavored Almonds.

The salt & vinegar almonds are indeed BOLD as advertised, but they keep me away from my beloved salt & vinegar potato chips.  If you take nothing else away from this post, remember this: potatoes, in any form, are just not congruous with weight loss.  There's no way around this simple truth. 

Trey is still not drinking Diet Coke.  We still have no cable.  Yoda would say, holding steady, we are.  As you might imagine, I wanted my FoxNews Monday morning when SCOTUS started rolling out the good news.  I've read so much about the 5-4 Hobby Lobby decision that I don't have much to say, other than, YAY!, & also I wish I didn't completely expect the lunacy coming from the left over this, but I very much expect it, & they continue to deliver.  I think if I hear or read the phrase War on Women one more time, I will pitch a fit Reagan would envy.

What SCOTUS said Monday is that an employer doesn't have to pay for certain contraceptive measures if those measures violate their faith.  No one is limiting your options, ladies (& I use the term ladies loosely), you just might have to pay for some of them yourself if they result in the death of an embryo (if only we could figure out how these pesky embryos end up in the womb in the first place!).  It is pathetic that we label some of these measures 'contraception' anyway, as if a condom, the birth control pill, the morning after pill, & an abortion are all equally wonderful forms of contraception.  Okay maybe I have a little to say.  So much of what we bicker about comes down to who is picking up the tab, because not only do many Americans want to indulge themselves & exercise their right to make terrible choices, they want someone else to pay for the consequences of those choices.  Isn't it ironic that liberals are furious over five men making this decision regarding who has to pay for contraception, but these same people think the federal government is the ideal body to oversee healthcare for everyone.  Last time I checked, the Supreme Court is a part of the federal government, & their hand was forced on this issue because of the federal overhaul of healthcare.  Unfortunately, liberals cannot appreciate this irony because of their blinding hypocritical rage.  

You may've missed it among all the SCOTUS news Monday, but, despite his earlier statement that he was not going to seek reelection in the fall, Vance McAllister reversed himself Monday & announced he is indeed running in the fall.  Sigh.  Clearly he's not a blog reader; I think I specifically stated my desire for him not to seek reelection.  We can do better than Mr. McAllister, people of Louisiana's 5th congressional district.  I want my congressional district to make national news because we've done something awesome like sending Eric Cantor home in favor of Dave Brat, a political novice who spent $150,000 & managed to unseat a powerful Republican leader (whose actions were not those of a Republican, or a leader).  Let the kissing congressman stay home & kiss his wife.

Quick story: Trey bought a gun safe, which I'm guessing is as interesting to you as it is to me, however, it is noteworthy because the safe came in a big BIG box.  My mom was at the house Tuesday & worked some box-cutting magic, & Reagan's efforts to hoard toys/taunt Henry have been revitalized.  The box is deep, & as you can see, is equipped for surveillance.  I'll have to get some additional pics of Reagan's new fortress; she has announced she's going to paint it.  So, don't think about stealing Reagan's toys, & don't think about trying to steal all of our guns (because even Trey can't figure out the combination to the safe at the moment).

I hope you have a wonderful July 4th.

Here are my kids last July 4th.  Henry was not quite a month old.  His thighs have grown larger this past year, while mine have grown smaller:

  
I hope you didn't think I had sewn some sort of patriotic quilt.  There's many a topic covered on this blog, but I think you know by now that sewing is not, nor will it ever be, a topic of interest for me.  I finished writing this, & it's such a patchwork of thoughts, & the post needed a title, so there you go.  Children grow, seasons change, but you can always be certain, I have not sewn a thing.

AZ

Under Siege

Discipline (of the self variety)

I've been thinking a lot about the idea of disease.  Disease is, at least for me, laden with negative connotations.  You don't want a disease of any kind, right?  You certainly don't want your child to have a disease.  

This article came to my attention recently.  It was posted on a friend's Facebook page.  Written by Dr. Keith Ablow, a psychiatrist, it is titled, "Obesity is not a disease - and neither is alcoholism," & was written a year ago in response to the American Medical Association's decision to classify obesity as a disease.  What Dr. Ablow argues, & I agree with him, is that by labeling obesity & alcoholism diseases, we're giving alcoholics & the obese a pass, an excuse, & we're also placing the financial burden of their often costly healthcare on the taxpayers (& the taxpayers are BURNED OUT, y'all!).

This irresponsible use of the term disease is one more example of the pervasiveness of the "It's not my fault" culture in which we live.  So here goes.  Yes, yes, sometimes things are your fault, & if you make bad choices repeatedly, & those choices become destructive habits, & you find yourself grossly overweight, or drinking in a closet rather than spending time with your kids, it is your fault.  IT. IS. YOUR. FAULT.  Slapping the disease label on something that is the direct result of poor decision making is a blame shifting game that is detrimental to those who, more than anything else, need a heavy dose of self-control, & it is also financially unsustainable for our debt-crippled nation.

Diabetes is a disease.  Type 1 diabetes is, at present, an incurable disease.  My three year old has an incurable disease.  Three years in, one of her organs bailed on her.  She absolutely must receive insulin on a daily basis or her physical condition will rapidly deteriorate; conversely, if she has too much insulin in her system, things can get ugly very quickly.  Google hypoglycemia sometime.  Diabetes can be managed, but it is a serious disease, & it is ridiculous to me that alcoholism & obesity are also classified as diseases.  A lack of self-disipline is not a disease.  Laziness is not a disease.  Unfortunately, our government encourages laziness.  We heavily tax industrious business owners, & mail checks to those who don't work.  We pay the (often excessive) medical bills of those whose maladies are the result of years of terrible, self-indulgent choices.

We've got it all backwards.  We pass laws attempting to dictate what people can & cannot eat, drink, smoke, etc., but yet, when they make unhealthy choices, we're right there to pick up the tab.  We tell them they have a disease, & nothing is their fault, & Uncle Sam will make sure their medicine, & their surgery, & their rehab are paid in full.

Once upon a time, this was America, land of the free.  You were free to eat yourself into an early grave, & free to drink your life away, with the understanding that you would pay your own medical bills, & your rehab bills when they started rolling in, because everyone, including Uncle Sam, knew that what you had was a self-discipline problem, not a disease.  Freedom means not only the freedom to do as you please, but the understanding that you will accept the consequences of the decisions you make.

We clean up the messes our children make when they are small because they are too young to understand the consequences of their messy, messy behavior.  I watch Henry throw food & smile & laugh, & then I clean it all up, because he has no concept of consequences yet.  I also dictate basically every facet of Henry's life; where he goes, what he eats, drinks, wears, etc.  He is a child, & I am his parent, & this is how our relationship should function until he ages & gradually is given more freedom, & then a little more freedom, with the understanding that with freedom comes responsibility.  If I continue to clean up his messes, I do him no favors, & I do society no favors by unleashing yet another self-indulgent, undisciplined adult into a culture that is full to the brim with undisciplined adults.  I use the term adult loosely.

Children who know their parents will make them face the consequences of their actions often think long & hard about what they do.  I did.  My parents never blamed a teacher, or a principal, or a coach.  If they had an issue with someone who'd disciplined me, they didn't discuss it in my presence.  I knew trouble at school meant trouble at home, & the trouble at home was typically much more severe than the punishment the school doled out.  I was so, so, so incredibly angry at my parents at times, & I know this likely pained them, but they stood their ground.  I see their wisdom now.  It is a disservice to raise a child who believes nothing is his or her fault; it is a disservice to the child, & a disservice to the people who will have to deal with their entitlement minded attitude.

I believe that if people knew they did not have someone else's money to rely on when the medical bills pile up, some of them would make better decisions.  I would rather my tax dollars be spent on an insulin pump for a young child with type 1 diabetes, a disease that nothing in the world will prevent or cure at present, than be used to pay the medical bills of an individual who refuses to do what is necessary to prevent the maladies that afflict the obese.  I would rather my tax dollars be spent on diabetes research than rehab for an alcoholic; curing diabetes should be a priority since it is quite obvious how to end the perils of alcoholism.  My daughter can't make her own insulin, but you can stop drinking, & you can change your eating habits, & you can get off your couch for an hour or two a day.  Is it hard?  Of course.  But it is possible.  As Dr. Ablow states,

We have gone way too far down the road of suggesting that addictions, in general, are beyond the control of individuals.  When an alcoholic chooses alcohol over being available to his or her family and friends, that person is making a decision.  When a heroin addict chooses heroin over financial stability and performing well at work, that person is making a choice, too.  And the choice is not beyond that person's control.  It is a measure of how much discomfort that person is willing to endure, in service to himself, and others.

Reagan has no choice.  There is no discomfort she or I could endure that would end her diabetes.  If I could send Reagan to rehab & eliminate her diabetes, I would.  If I could give her my pancreas & eliminate her diabetes, I would.  If I could change her diet & eliminate her diabetes, I would.  Sorry that I don't have much compassion for those who have a choice, but don't possess the self-discipline to make the right choice.  At a minimum, please, please don't ask me to sit idly, quietly by while my tax dollars pay for the consequences of their poor choices, & the money left post-taxes pays for the insulin, & needles, & sugar meter, & meter strips, & doctor visits managing Reagan's diabetes demands.

When Reagan was first diagnosed in January of this year, I missed a few days teaching to be with her in the PICU.  When I returned to work & stood before my classes, I briefly explained my absence.  One student, upon hearing that Reagan had been diagnosed as diabetic, said, "Oh, you can get a check for that!"  I didn't respond.  I didn't even look up for a few seconds, pretending to be occupied with my roster or text or something.  I just moved on with class, resisting the urge to explain that no, no I cannot get a check for that.  The only time the government sends a check to my address is if we've paid too much in taxes (as if we don't always pay too much in taxes).  That student's statement stuck with me, & likely always will.  "Oh, you can get a check for that!" as if, rather than learning we were dealing with an incurable disease, my child & I had just won some sort of lottery.  This is the state of our nation, folks, & it is dismal.    

Soon after Reagan's diagnosis, Trey must've been doing a little googling because one day he rattled off a list of type 1 diabetics, & included on that list was Sonia Sotomayor.  She is, for those who aren't cool & can't name all nine members of the U.S. Supreme Court, a sitting Supreme Court Justice.

Justice Sotomayor was diagnosed at seven.  She has lived with diabetes for over fifty years now.  In the prologue of her memoir, My Beloved World, she recalls a morning fight between her parents over who was responsible for injecting her with the daily insulin she needs.  Without a word, seven year old Sonia walked to the stove to begin to boil the water needed to sterilize the needle & glass syringe required for her injection.  Disposable needles were not yet available at that time.  From that morning on, she took on the responsibility of managing her diabetes.  She goes on to discuss the discipline required to manage her diabetes, & how it has helped her in other areas of her life.  Justice Sotomayor's  advice to the parents of children with type 1 diabetes: "Don't stand in the way of their dreams, don't stand in the way of their activities, don't stand in the way of them taking control of their own lives.  Teach them; don't do it for them."  The chasm between Justice Sotomayor's political ideology & mine is deep & wide, but, knowing what it takes to manage type 1 diabetes, I have to admire the tenacity of a child who shouldered that responsibility at seven years old.  Knowing that she was able to keep herself not only alive, but healthy, with little help from her parents, it is not at all a surprise that she now sits on the nation's highest bench.  

Reagan, dear, it grieves my heart that you will deal with your disease for the rest of your life.  It grieves my heart that there is nothing you or I can do, or stop doing, to eliminate your diabetes.  I am hopeful & prayerful that a genuine cure will be found in your lifetime, but for the foreseeable future, I, & then you, will be responsible for performing the many important functions of a pancreas.  It is not an easy job, but it is certainly doable.  It takes tremendous discipline.  Caring for you these past few months has made me a more disciplined person in numerous areas of my life.  I know that you have enough of my anal retentiveness in you that you are going to excel at caring for yourself; you are going to want the numbers as perfect as I do.  

Reagan, I want you to reject the disease label.  Nothing about you speaks to disease.  You are vibrant & beautiful.  You need insulin.  Guess what?  Everybody needs insulin.  Yours is delivered a little unconventionally.  Be whatever in the world you want to be.  Be a Supreme Court Justice (a conservative Supreme Court Justice).  Be a doctor.  Research diabetes (relying on your father's math skills).  Become the president of the United States, assuming that's an option when you're old enough & the Chinese don't own us.  Don't be defined by your diabetes; let the self-disicpline required to manage diabetes seep into every other area of your life.  Be defined by your self-disipline, because, as Plato said, "the first and best victory is to conquer self."  Whatever it is that you want, if it's worth having, attaining it will require self-discipline, whether it is beautiful blood sugar numbers, an English degree, a thriving Christian marriage, or a seat on the Supreme Court; you are certainly capable of achieving all four.

AZ

After the Cream Cheese

I was in good company last weekend.  I mentioned that I was taking myself out Friday night to see The Fault in Our Stars, & the date went well.  Going to the theater to see a movie alone is at the top of my list of "things I love to do, but rarely do."  When I was younger & had few responsibilities & heaps of free time, I never went to see a movie alone.  I mean, that's so sad, right?  No, no it is not.  It is awesome.  

The movie is better than the book.  Mark it down - - June 19, 2014 - - because that's not a sentence I often utter, or type.  Rather than making me want to rush home & reread the book, as movies often do, I wanted to just forget about the book & pretend the story was originally written as a screenplay.  Shailene Woodley, who takes on the role of Hazel, is a good actress (she's an exceptional crier!); I enjoyed her as Hazel considerably more than I enjoyed spending time inside Hazel's head as narrator when I read the book.  Ms. Woodley out-acts all of her cast mates in the film, though Ansel Elgort, who portrays her love interest Augustus, does a fine job in my opinion.  If you plan to see the movie, be aware that it thoroughly rips your heart out.  My mascara was running in rivulets down my face, which was not at all a problem since I was on a date with myself & jetted out of the theater as soon as the credits started to roll so as to avoid seeing anyone I know who might've interrupted the solitude of my date (or be taken aback by the make-up sliding off my face).  

After my big date night Friday I'd have been content to sit home all day Saturday, however, Trey & I had a gift certificate to Cotton burning a hole in our pockets.  Cotton, for those of you who aren't local readers (a population I estimate to be about four), is a fine dining establishment.  Trey's parents graciously agreed to sit with the children Saturday night, & so I enjoyed not one, but two date nights last weekend.

Regularly I see pictures of couples I know posted to Facebook . . . they're dressed up, they're smiling, & the couple selfie they've posted to Facebook boasts the caption, "Date night!"  Sometimes the picture is accompanied by an explanation that, OMG!!! Date night is soooo overdue, and they, like, really need to get out of the house & relax because they haven't been out since last weekend.  I totally roll my eyes at these silly couples, especially if they have one child, or maybe they have two children, both of whom have a functioning pancreas, & I am tempted to comment on the photo & tell them about needing to relax.  Or checking blood sugar at four in the morning.  Or only washing your hair every third day.  Something like that.

Trey & I are both homebodies, & between that & the fact that we're not comfortable leaving Reagan with anyone but one of our mothers (because most nurses & endocrinologists aren't looking to pick up extra cash babysitting), we don't make date night a regular thing, but I am so glad we showered & dressed in our finest (okay, we were both in jeans) & made the effort last Saturday night because, well, CREAM CHEESE.

Trey let me decide which appetizer we'd order.  This was a huge sacrifice on his part, because he knew that concession meant there was no chance he'd be enjoying Cotton's duck wraps since the duck is wrapped in bacon, which I do not eat.  I don't eat pork, ever, at all.  I'm not sure if I've mentioned this to my blog readers, but there you have it.  And no, no I am not Jewish.  I just think pork is kind of nasty.  So anyway, no duck wraps.  What I decided on was Creole Cream Cheese, and oh, oh, I made an excellent decision.  It's this little dish of cream cheese that's layered with some sort of pepper jelly, & then there's a glaze of honey over the top.  It's served with some sort of fancy crackers that, in theory, you spread the cream cheese on, but I found it was lovely just licking it off my fork.

I have no pictures of Trey & me, or the cream cheese.  You'll just have to imagine all the pretty.  

Since Saturday night, I've thought a lot about the Creole Cream Cheese.  There are various reasons for this.  First, it was so good, & I am plotting my way back to another helping of it, but the logistics are tricky.  Cotton is not a place I eat often (again, various reasons, all involving my kids).  Second, I continue my quest to lose weight, which is going fairly well, so in general I think about food a lot (though this was also the case when I was not attempting to lose weight, hence, the weight).  Finally, I think my thoughts return to the cream cheese because since eating it, not much else of note has happened.

My mom left town early last Saturday morning en route to spend the week in Destin with her sisters.  What this means for me is that this week I've been minus one babysitter.  The kids & I have been at the house a great deal.  I love my kids, & I love my house, but you know, it can all get a little mind numbing - - change his diaper, check her number, fix the food, inject the insulin, change his diaper, check her number, fix the food, inject the insulin - - & thus, nostalgic thoughts of the cream cheese return, & admittedly, thoughts of the tranquil setting in which it was enjoyed.  At one point earlier this week, I was mentally composing lyrics for "After The Cream Cheese is Gone," a song set to the tune of the Eagles' classic, "After The Thrill is Gone."  And really, cream cheese & thrill are synonymous.  I am sure if they were more familiar with the Eagles (which they will be soon enough!), my kids would've been having some fun with "Witchy Woman."

Nana, Nana, are you home yet?

The only photos I have to share were taken by Reagan.  It's an abstract series titled, "Mom's reading so she let me have her phone for awhile":

There were a few exciting moments yesterday morning when I got into a verbal throwdown with a total stranger on the Internet over whether or not alcoholism & obesity should be labelled diseases (is an overwhelming desire to prove that strangers online are SO, SO WRONG a disease?).  That's the crazy thing about Facebook: you comment on some article a friend posted, & then their friend, whom you don't know at all, comments, & you simply cannot do the adult thing & walk away, you have to respond.  

Then, I posted the article on my Facebook page, where further discussion ensued, although it was mature, adult discussion, admittedly mainly because I'd gotten my rant out of my system already for the most part.

Since the Facebook showdown I've been doing a little reading (outside the fiction realm, that is), including some reading about Supreme Court Justice Sonia Sotomayor, who, if you didn't know, is a Type 1 diabetic.  So stay tuned, & if I can ever get my thoughts together (& away from the cream cheese), you'll be treated to the kindest things I will ever, ever, ever have to say about a liberal member of the Supreme Court (or any liberal, anywhere).

On the fiction front, I have finished rereading A Farewell to Arms & decided to begin The Bronze Horseman by Paullina Simons.  This may've been a mistake.  After I'd downloaded the book to my iPad, I discovered it is the first book in a series.  No, no, no, I thought.  Don't get yourself involved in a three book series, Anna . . . I texted my friend who'd recommended the book, & she has yet to read the second book in the series, but confirmed that yes, it's a series, & apparently one that has a bit of a cult following online.  So, it's basically right up my alley.  It is practically screaming my name.  I have begun the first book, & it's good so far.  It is not yet interfering with my sleep, or my ability to parent, but it's good.  It is set during WWII (I know, I can't get away from the wars) & is the love story of Tatiana, a young Russian girl who is seventeen at the novel's open, & Alexander, a young Russian solider.  It boasts lines like, "We're at war with Germany," Alexander said.  "I have no time for pretenses."  Good stuff.  You have to love a man who has no time for pretenses.  If you don't hear from me for awhile after today, you can be pretty certain I am heavily involved in Russian attempts to thwart Hitler.

Did you notice that I completely glossed over A Farewell to Arms?  Not to worry; more on that later.  The book club is scheduled to meet next week.  I am mentally preparing myself to defend the merits of Hemingway's work as I fear I will be the novel's only cheerleader when we meet to discuss it.  I think this is the first read for everyone in the book club, & admittedly you have to read the book at least twice before you begin to love it, in my opinion.  Perhaps I will write a book about a book club that is split in two over the members' differing opinions on A Farewell to Arms.    

So, to summarize: cream cheese, online bickering, & a little fiction.

If you're out & about in the twin cities this weekend, stop by Cotton & enjoy their Creole Cream Cheese appetizer (they do not pay me to say this).  I'll be satisfied snagging a few banana flavored Puffs when Henry's not looking.  Or Reagan.  Or Sophie.  They're all nuts about the Puffs.  I, clearly, am just nuts.

AZ