Fucking participation medals…

We are living in a different world than I grew up in. When I was a kid, if you failed at something, you tried harder. If you sucked at something, you either tried to master it, or you moved on to something else. If you didn’t study, you got a great big F on your paper/test. We were taught that failing was part of life, and you got back what you put in.

Nowadays, asses are patted, and everyone wins. No one fails, even if they don’t know shit. Everyone is included. And even if you don’t know what you’re doing, you get a participation medal/ribbon.

What the fuck is that!? We are raising a society of sniveling little punk ass bitches, who’s feelings are more important than reality, and they feel entitled and deserving of everything, even if they just straight up do NOT.

My kids played sports, but score wasn’t kept. They all came home with ribbons and medals, just for showing up. That is shit. I kept score! Cuz you know what, if you don’t know you suck, how are you ever going to get better!?

My son just finished his second season of volleyball. And almost all of the parents and coaches are all like “good try!” even when the ball wasn’t touched, was way out, or their set smashed them in their face. No way dude… I was the parent on the sidelines going, “SERIOUSLY! the ball doesn’t hit the floor! use your kneepads! GO! watch the tip!!!” They won’t get better if they think that effort is satisfactory. Now, I am not one of the crazy sport parents who berate their child, other children, refs, coaches or parents. But I made sure my son knew how to play so he would improve. Nothing wrong with that.

Now shifting gears; my little dudes bday party is this weekend. And when we did the Kindergarten orientation, the teacher said “birthday invites – you invite all the girls, all the boys, the entire class, or you do it quietly away from the classroom” So, that is what we did. We stalked parents for days, figuring out who belonged to whom, and when the time came, we handed the invites TO THE PARENTS, in the parking lot, away from the watchful eyes of the children. None of the kids even knew they were invited.

Did this stop the drama? Oh, fuck no.

At another childs birthday party, I was accosted and hollered at by one mother, who angrily sat on the bench beside me (and was hunting me down on facebook while she was flipping shit on me, but I didn’t know this until the day after) and asked me when my sons bday party was. I said “ehhh” because I was about to inform her that he was only allowed to invite 3 boys and 3 girls, as we were having it at our home. But before any actual words came out of my mouth, she hollered at me and accused me of lying to her. Told me she knew I didn’t invite her son, and then proceeded to accuse me of lying to her. In the middle of this boys birthday party. I bit my tongue, rolled my eyes (there was literally no avoiding that) and told the other moms who were standing there dumbfounded, that I would see them on Monday. And I left. And I later learned that another mom defended me after I left, and this other woman complained about me for a while after I was already gone. And then I learned that she was bad mouthing me to other parents!

What the actual hell, woman. This is total horseshit, and completely unnecessary behavior. SHE is the one who told her son that he wasn’t invited. SHE is the one who spread it around to the other kids and parents. SHE is the one who lost her shit at a 5 year olds birthday party and created a scene. And SHE is the one who accosted me again, at my sons birthday presentation at school. Again, she came up to me, all red faced and angry, and asked me why I excluded ONLY her son.

This is never going to end. She is also bad mouthing and shit talking me on facebook in a mommy chat page (I am not on that page any more, because I can not stand the bullshit drama and cattiness of most women). I am over this. Her son is a bully and has attacked 2 of my children. My son doesn’t want to go to school anymore because of this child, so why the hell would I allow that into his safe space!?

Give your fucking head a shake, and maybe some of the crazy will escape. Because I am straight up finished with the bullshit and drama. Your kid wasn’t invited. I didn’t punch him. I didn’t yell at him. I didn’t “nah nah nah nah boo boo” him in front of everyone.

The entire world isn’t fair, isn’t always inclusive, and isn’t always going to shit skittle rainbows.

Fucking participation medals. A world full of over-sensitive bitches and spoiled rotten entitled little snot nosed brats.

 

 

The lasts of the firsts..

Tonight is just the same as any other night. It is Sunday in November. But while today is just like any other day, it is completely different – we are about to experience yet another last of the firsts.

My youngest turns 5 tomorrow. Five. I can barely wrap my head around this. And while he has already started school (another last of the firsts, as it was the last time we had a first day of school) this birthday is hitting me harder than most have in the past. Five feels big. It feels like he is no longer my baby, but this little tiny human who has this whole life that I am no longer a part of.

He is my last baby. I am not having any more. He completed our family. He was the last time I would be on the maternity floor at a hospital. He was the last bottle made for a 2am feeding. He was the last first time rolling over. He was the last time learning to crawl. He was the last first steps. He was the last first tooth. He was the last first giggle. He was the last first night in a big bed. He was the last first time riding a bike. He was the last first lost tooth. He was the last first day of school.

He is the last of the firsts.

And I know we have a lot of firsts to go through; not only with him, but with our other 2 boys (and there are firsts coming with them, as they are 11 and 13!! those are new firsts that I am not quite prepared for!!!) it is really sad to be closing the chapter on the first firsts. The baby firsts. The tiny heads and sweet noises, and the immense pride that you can only feel when you watch your tiny human do something for the first time; something you take for granted, like smiling, laughing, talking, walking, not shitting your pants…

He is turning 5. I remember where I was at this time 5 years ago. I had just dropped my older two off for the week, as I knew I was having a C-section on Tuesday morning. My husband (then boyfriend, because we like to do things out of order, and don’t conform to what society says is right and proper, and also because I swore I would never get married again..) and I had our entire day planned, for our last day without our baby. He came home from work, we watched SportsCenter (as we always did in the mornings), I went downstairs to get some cereal and wanted sugar, but the only sugar we had was that stupid paper bag of Rogers sugar, and it was on the top shelf of the pantry. I grabbed it and it fell on me, and exploded all over the kitchen. I remember laughing hysterically as I called Trevor to come rescue me from my current sticky predicament. We laughed, I ate, and then showered. And while he was getting out of the shower, he smashed his baby toe on the edge of the tub, and busted it wide open. This maybe isn’t something normal to remember, but it comes out again in the story. Then his mother showed up, as she was planning on coming to the hospital the next day, as she had never been in the room for a grandchild being born (she wouldn’t again, as I was being cut open in surgery, but she would see him when he was only hours old, which was a first for her) and I had a sip of hot chocolate, but it didn’t taste right, so I dumped the rest out. We then piled into her car to go do my pre-reg at the hospital, as I would be there too early the next day to register. They hooked me up to the little baby heartrate ticker thing (three kids, no idea what it is actually called) and the nurse looked at me and  said “wow. you’re having quite a few contractions!” and I just laughed and told her they had been happening all weekend, but I had been getting them since August. She then told me that she wanted to do an internal to see if I was actually in labor. Trevor and his mom stepped out, only to be called back in by my shouting “as if!” as the nurse told me I was more than 4cm dilated, and would be having my son that day. This came as a shock to us all, as we didn’t have a bag packed, didn’t have anything ready, didn’t even have our truck!! We had planned on going to see Harold and Kumar, and for dinner, then planned on packing our bag that night. Beauty of having a planned C-section; there really is very little guess work. Or so we thought.

Trevor left in a mad rush, as I was taken upstairs and prepped for surgery. I stood in the hallway, pacing while waiting for my nurse, and made a bunch of phonecalls to tell my family and closest friends that our son was coming a day early. It ended up being kind of awesome, though, as my older 2 were both born on the 7th, and now, so would my third. We lived 20 minutes away from the hospital, and he had to pack all of our stuff, and rush back. He got there just as I was being wheeled out of the room ( he would have been there sooner, to you know, support and calm me down, but he stopped for pepsi… ahem) and within a half an hour, our baby was there, in our arms, and smack dab in the middle of our hearts. The 3 days we spent in the hospital was filled with its own drama and bs, none of which needs to be recalled or revisited.. except Trevor’s aforementioned toe, which reaked havoc the whole time we were there, as the nurses weren’t able to give him a bandaid, because HE wasn’t a patient. His toe bled for the whole week. Note to self: beware toe damage – that shit bleeds forever!

And now, here I sit, remembering his tiny perfect head, his beautiful little baby lips, his tiny little noises, and how much my heart exploded when I got to hold him the first time.

The last time I held my baby for the first time. The last time I brought a new baby home from the hospital. The last time I spent hours trying to figure out how to make his formula, work the bottle warmer and the bottle sterilizer (so much was supposed to be done that last night! haha) The last time we would have a brand new baby at home for the first time. The last time we got to show off our new baby.

The last of the firsts. I know there are lots of other firsts, but this chapter is officially closed. He is going to be 5. To some, that may not seem like a big deal, but to me, it is.

My last baby.

 

I am back, bitches!

I have taken some time to chill, organize my life, and see how things feel. And what I can say right now is… things feel great! We are happy in our new house – it fits us very well and everyone is loving our new space.

Don’t get me wrong, the move itself was a slice of flaming hell. We had help. We arranged ahead of time for people to come help with the heavy cumbersome shit. I pack the house and clean after it is emptied, so the husband moves the shit. Seems fair. Except this time, help didn’t come. Bunch of hosers just didn’t show up. So who did the brunt of the heavy lifting? That would be us. At one point, my head was pinned between the wall and the couch, and I was not pleased. I know there are other people we could have called, but I have a very good reason for not doing so, which is why I am not bitching too heavily about moving our shit ourselves. Am I selfless? Did I want to give people their time with their families? Did I want to avoid being an inconvenience? NO! I don’t want those people calling us to move their shit. HAHA! Totally selfish, hence only being slightly annoyed.

Moving on…. We are settled and everyone is enjoying their respective spots in school.

Biggest little is thriving in grade 8 and just starting another year of volleyball. He is so good at that game, it is crazy. And it doesn’t hurt that he is very close to being 6 feet tall. Loser. I make him sit down when I give him shit, now. Nobody will take a 5’3″ person seriously when they hover 5-6 inches above them. He is a giant. He has a big heart. But at times I still question every choice I have ever made with him, due to the moron-adolescent big-ass attitude. Just have to remember it happens to the best of us and hope tomorrow is better. But as I remind myself all the time – it could be worse! He truly is a great kid and watching him become this beanpole with a vision for his life is kind of flooring me!

Middle-little (also known as the diabetic) is kicking ass this year. November 9th will be his 1 year diaversary, and he has got such a good grasp of it, our last appointment was mostly just sitting around and bullshitting with his nurses.. they didn’t even want to see his food log. He has grown (physically and emotionally) with this disease and we are blown away every day with how well he has adapted. He is in grade 6 and doing amazeballs with school and with his stupid busted ass pancreas. But he is so much more than just a diabetic kid. He is so funny and silly, and is going to earn a living with his amazing drawing and attention to detail. Just you wait and see….

Little-little!! Aww, here is where the changes are undeniable. My baby started kindergarten this year. Not only is it weird that he isn’t home two days a week, but he comes home and talks about this life that we aren’t a part of, and that has never happened before. It is tearing my heart apart a bit, but he is doing really well, so that helps. He attended his first bday party without us today, which is another change. Sigh… My baby. Seriously freaked out by this new development!

My husband!! Seriously… gush gush gush. I love the ever loving shit out of that man! Him appearing in my life was random, and a total miracle. My heart was obliterated before him, and now it is put back together in the most perfect way. He did a course at work this week, and walked away with a 98% which is amazing for someone who despises school, tests, speaking in front of people, has adhd, etc. And now this man, this amazing human that I get to share my life with, is a certified heavy equipment operator, and is certified to train people to not only run the equipment, but to also train other people to train people. In summation, he is a heavy equipment badass, and I am stupid proud of him! Plus, he is total sex on a stick, so there’s that, too.

Me…. I don’t really have a lot to report (at the moment) but shit is changing. My horizon is beginning to look a lot more pink, and the dark clouds are way behind me now. I have a few tricks up my sleeve… lets just say, what is coming next will be revolutionary in my life.

Like I said…. I’m back, bitches. But the me that is back isn’t the me you knew from before… I put myself back together differently this time.

*mic drop*

Diabetes life – More than needles and blood


Let me preface this with: my son has diabetes. It is new to us, but I am already very well versed in it, and don’t take lightly to BS being said about it. 

Now… 

When my son was diagnosed, other than losing my grandmother, it was the worst day of my life. My little boy, who was so funny and outgoing, and so full of life, would be thrown onto a new path and forced into a life he didn’t want. Heart. Shattered. 

But not only was he thrust into this life, we all were. His parents. His siblings. His friends (and their parents). His grandparents. His aunts and uncles. His teachers. His future girlfriends/wife. His future classmates. His future employers. People he has never met before are already impacted by this. 

Would we change our path if we could? No question about it!! But alas, his pancreas is gonna be a useless piece of shit forever now, so this is where we live. And this is where we deal. 

I keep saying “we”, as this is one hell of a team effort. My husband and I do the brunt of the work, but no one – NO ONE – does as much as our son! I’ll touch on that more in a bit. 

My husband and I are the ones who plan all of his meals, his snacks, his injection points; determine his carb to insulin ratios, how much long-lasting insulin to give; who hound him to drink lots of water; who make sure he gets lots of sleep and exercise; who deal with the random highs and sporadic lows. We are his first line of defense. 

Our other two boys help a lot. They help to put his lunches together, help to organize our pantry (which is a finely tuned machine on its own, with all of the food in it stacked in clear order, with the carb count written on top in sharpie) Our 4 year old hugs our DiaBadAss every time he has needles. And we play a game at mealtimes to see who can guess the closest to his blood sugar. It helps us all learn how he acts at different levels, and it helps him to learn how he feels at different levels. Plus, making it like a game takes some of the blah out of it. 

Here’s a “day in the life of” to show that we may make it look easy, but that is only because I am borderline OCD and am slightly Type A, and we work well together as a team. It doesn’t look easy because it is easy! Do not ever for a second think this is easy. We just deal a lot better than most:

On a regular (school) day, my son wakes up around 7:10, does the normal morning stuff and comes for breakfast. There, instead of sitting down and eating like most people are accustomed, he washes his hands, gets his kits and sits at the table. He then takes a strip out and gets his meter ready. Then he takes his lancing device, and patiently blows a small hole into his sensitive finger tip. He gently squeezes, wipes that drop off, and squeezes out a fresh drop, which he then gently places onto his ready test strip. While waiting for that number to appear, which will dictate the dose of fast-acting insulin he will have at that meal, he wipes his finger clean and gets his insulin pens out. Once the number comes up, we then begin determining the carb count for his breakfast, and using the blood sugar we just learned, and using his carb to insulin ratio for breakfast (and it’s different for all 3 meals in the day – something we had to painstakingly determine through trial and error) we figure out how much NovoRapid he will be taking. He then dials 2 units, shoots it into the lid, then dials in how many units he needs for breakfast (usually 4 units). Then he sticks that tiny needle into his tiny belly, and counts to 10, while the life-preserving smelly as hell insulin shoots into his non-existent fat (he has to pinch skin to create “fat” to inject into). Then once that needle is done, he gets his long-acting insulin ready to go. This one isn’t based on carbs, it’s an insulin he only takes once a day, and it lasts 24 hours (so they say). He primes this the same way, but through trial and error and what seems like a constant change in need, he takes the dose that we have determined is his “basal” need for the day. (It started out as 7 when he was first diagnosed, but over the course of 9 months, it’s increased to 14. That’s not to say it won’t decrease once school starts again, as being at school, he’s more active, but for now, it’s 14). He picks another spot on his poor needle torn belly, and sticks yet another needle into his pinched flesh. And only then, can he begin to eat his breakfast. Then we pack his lunch and snacks for the day, all the while counting his carbs, and writing everything down in his food log (including blood sugar tests and how much of each insulin he takes). Snack time rolls around at school, and he tests, texts me his number, and we determine if he can eat the snack was packed, or needs to replace it with a “free snack”(which we also pack, just in case), which is what he has when he is “out of range”. Lunchtime, and he pulls out everything we have marked as “lunch” in his lunchbox (so he knows what is snack and lunch, as it is exactly calculated), tests his blood get again, texts us the number, and we, recalling the carbs we packed for him and what his ratio is, tell him how many of his NovoRapid to take. Then he goes through the whole ordeal with priming and ramming himself with a needle, this time in the presence of his classmates and friends. The same is repeated for his afternoon snack, as well as his test when he gets home from school. Once dinner comes, we have already calculated his dinner carbs (after usually taking the packaging out of the garbage over and over, because we have forgotten the carbs, because that’s just what diabetes parents do!) and he goes through the whole situation again. 2-3 hours after dinner, he tests again, and if he is out of range/high, he takes correction insulin and grabs a bedtime snack (generally something free – he likes Whisps and cucumbers) and goes to bed.. And that’s when I take over. I test him around 10:30-11:00, and if he has correction insulin, again at 12:00. And every night, I wake up at 3:00 in the morning and check him. So on a typical night, I check him twice when he is sleeping. The nights he has insulin, I check 3-4 times. And the nights he is low and needs juice (which he drinks in his sleep)? I check him 5 times. With lows while sleeping, diabetics run the risk of slipping into a coma, and never waking up. While there is air in my lungs, that will not happen to my son. His life means more to me than 15 minutes of sleep. Then we wake up the next day, and round and round we go again. 

His doctors appointments are in a city 4 hours away. And we go every 3-6 months. (Every 3 right now). We are at the drugstore getting supplies every week and a half (his supplies take up over half of my previous liquor cabinet – how I drink less now, I’ll never know!) The pharmacists know us. The diabetic team know us by our first names (including our non-D kids). We do training with teachers at school, and several of them have our cell phone numbers saved in their phones. Our family and friends have been given crash courses on testing, needles, carb counting, radios, how to inject his glucagon for the emergencies in which he goes into a coma and can not eat his fast acting sugar. 

We have done more math in the last 9 months than I have in years. And you know what? He’s worth every tear, effort, sleepless night and frustration. 

There are a lot of misconceptions about diabetes, and I’ll touch on that another time… But what you need to take from this is: it’s hard. Every damned day is hard. It’s hard for us, but it’s the hardest for our son. Regardless of what we do or how much we put into this, it is only happening to our son. This is his life, we are just helping him learn how to make it be best possible. And I will continue to do so as long as he wants and needs me to. 

Period. 

What do you want to be when you grow up?

It is an age-old question, that is mostly only ever presented to kids, or teenagers. It is something that you are expected to just know. When I grow up, I want to be…Β  bla bla. It is something that is asked of us before most of us even know who we are.

And it got me thinking of all of the answers I have ever given.. Ophthalmologist was the first one I ever remember.. I even did a report about it. The two that stuck with me the longest are plastic surgeon and lawyer. I thought it would be fun to suck fat out of people.. there may be something wrong with me. And lawyer… that is the one I have wanted more than anything else. I have a knack for arguing, making people see things my way, and I have an impeccable memory. I would do it still, if I could. But that is a lot of schooling for someone who is as old as I am… I am not sure I have the drive in me, anymore. (I mean, of course, there is writer. I have wanted to be a writer as long as I can remember. Nothing would make me happier than writing for a living.. but it never seemed realistic. So it was never really considered a career option for me.. so I has always just remained a hobby and dream)

But, how can people know what they want to do with their entire lives, before they have even got a chance to live? It seems like an absurd thing to put on someone who still has a curfew. And yet, we do! And it is perfectly normal and acceptable.

Here, in Canada, things work a bit different than in the states (or anywhere else, but my knowledge of schooling in Canada and the US is a bit more inclusive, so that is where I’m sticking) In the US, they take SAT tests to determine what kind of post secondary education they are entitled to. Seriously. I don’t know about you, but I consider myself to be quite smart… and I know for a fact, that I probably would have sucked ass at that test and ended up in some fourth rate community college. Why? Because I second-guess everything when test scores are on the line! In Canada, we just have diploma exams.. and you apply where you want, and hope your high school transcript isn’t total shit.

Then you go, you learn, and you (hopefully) walk away with some form of diploma, and the absurd notion that this is going to be the beginning of the rest of your life.

Now let me ask you this… how many people actually do what their diploma grants them access to? How many people have bullshit degrees that don’t land them with anything but a mountain of student debt? How many people take schooling for something because they thought that is what their parents wanted? Or a boy they liked was going to be an engineer, so maybe I can be too, and we can get married and have kids and be all engineery together? How many people actually think about their life and what they want out of it?

I have two college diplomas. I use neither. One was a pressure-apply, and the other was because I thought it would be a good job to do while I was at home with my kids. Neither of them was my passion. Neither of them made me feel alive inside. And now here I sit, with my laptop warming my lap (see how that works?), and I have no idea what I want to do with the rest of my life!

Sure. I could go back to travel, and come home every night angry. Or I could push for a job in transcription, and sit alone in an office with headphones on for 8 hours a day.. no music, no talking, no outside interaction.. But I don’t want to do either of them. Nor do I want to cut hair (gross). Nor do I want to do nails. Nothing against any of these professions, but it is not what I want do to for me.

I have a few ideas rolling around in my head, and thanks to a new friend, I may have come up with the best option for me. But now it is going back to college! It is being a 35 year old and starting new. Do I have the drive and desire to do that? I am not sure yet. All I know is I have to do something. Not for money. Not for approval (anyone who talks shit about me can suck my ass). Not to feel important. Not to feel equal to my husband. But for me. I want to do something that makes me happy. That makes me feel fulfilled. That makes me feel good about myself. That is what I want…

My life is crazy… any parent of a diabetic can attest to how insane things can get in the blink of an eye. I also have a teenaged son (good times) and a little monkey that is starting kindergarten in the fall. So I feel like this might be my time. The diabetes is under control (well, as under control as that bastard disease can actually be), the teenager isn’t a douchebag who’s getting into all sorts of trouble (he is very trustworthy, thank god!) and my little guy is starting school.. seems like the perfect time for me to go do . Be. Do.

But what?

What do you want to be when YOU grow up?

Mom rant…

Excuse me for a second while I pull my soapbox up, dust it off, and climb on this bad boy….Β  I can’t scroll through IG or FB or any of these obnoxious social media sites that are now a part of our daily lives, without seeing this one meme that makes me want to punch myself in the ovaries and scream like a velociraptor.

Feast your eyes on this load of steaming you-know-what….

excuse-the-mess-kids-making-memories

 

WELL! I guess someone needs to break the bad news to my kids that they are going to be growing up sans memories! What a shitty way for my kids to have to live – with a clean house!! How dare I!?

Seriously, though. I feel like this is just a bullshit saying that people can spout off to keep themselves from feeling guilty that their home looks like an episode of Hoarders. “Oh it’s okay that I have rodents feasting on the remnants of last weeks dinner – look how happy my kids are!” Whatever helps you sleep at night, sweetheart.Oh and ps. GROSS.

Or there is this one….. which just basically sends a shot of pure rage down my spine and causes even more dinosaur-esque howls.

 

il_570xN.426485661_pfgj

Let me see if I can put this in the most delicate term I can muster, given how irritating I find this abhorrent saying…. *clears throat*

FUCK-ETH OFF-ETH! There… I added an “eth” to make it sound Shakespearean, cuz I’m classy like that.

So you are telling me that because people don’t stick to my floor, my kitchen is not covered in piles of dirty dishes and papers, and my laundry is all caught up, that somehow makes me a crap mother!? Go find a donut, and make love to the hole in the center… (again, trying to be classy.. if that doesn’t do it for you, try this… go fuck a donut!)

I have been in every situation that a mother can find themselves in. I have been a stay-at-home mom, I have been a working mom, I have been a single mom, I have been a single mom with two jobs, I have had 1 kid, 2 kids, and now 3 kids. ALL BOYS! And you know what? There has never been a situation in my life where anyone would feel compelled to call an exterminator due to my housekeeping inadequacies. I have been so busy that I didn’t get to bed at night until it was almost time to get up again. And you know what? My kitchen stayed clean, my boys stayed clean, my laundry was always done and nobody stuck to my floor!

And in spite of all of this, I am still a good mom. My kids are happy and healthy and we are all doing very well! I am just not a lazy shit. When something needs to be done, I do it. I don’t wait until it is in such disarray that it would be simpler to set it ablaze and start over.

But do you know what else I have done that helps greatly with the cleanliness of my home? I MAKE MY KIDS CLEAN UP THEIR MESSES!! Is that not the most insanely genius thing you have ever heard? Teaching your kids to be something other than a slob? What madness!! I know, this may sound like some weird form of sorcery, but it’s true. My kids, whom I may have mentioned before are all males, clean up their own mess. Their rooms get cleaned every night. The basement/xbox area is cleaned every night before bed. Their laundry is done once a week (by them, including folding and putting away). They help load and unload the dishwasher. It is quite simple – teach them to be respectful and tidy, and your house won’t look like a bomb filled with clothes, toys and shit has gone off every single day.

Messes do not equate to happy kids. Sticky shit on your floor does not make you a good mom. Happy kids are happy kids, regardless of how clean or messy their environment looks like. Good moms are the ones who love and cherish their kids, do right by them, teach them right from wrong, and make sure they have the very best chance in life to become the very best version of themselves. Being a revolting pig or having 20 loads of laundry laying around does not make you a good parent. Being a good parent makes you a good parent. Sorry, but it’s time that someone had to blow this shit wide open.

You want to have happy kids and be a good mom? Go do it! And stop spreading the lies and bullshit around, and stop pretending that the giant mess and sticky shit in your kitchen is a good thing. It’s not. Hoarders. They have a show for a reason.. and it is not for inspirational purposes.

 

Ten things not to say to a “boy mom”

I have all boys. It is a lot, some days. But I still love it. My boys are my world, and I wouldn’t trade them for anything. Do I sometimes wish I had a girl to do girly shit with? To take for pedicures and all of that? Sure. Sometimes. Then I think about the bras and clothes and periods and hair and boys and hormones and hormones and crying and tantrums and crying and nails and all of the stuff that comes with girls (just generalizing here, don’t jump up my ass for pigeon holing females.. speaking as a female, I can say this generalization is generally bang on)

BUT!!!! Boys are not easy. It’s not all hot wheels and skittles. To be honest, it is pretty close! But they come with their own list of challenges and issues, they are tiring and exhausting and confusing, just like every kid is. It has it’s moments of being insanely low maintenance, but, there are a few things about having all boys that drive me absolutely bat-shit crazy… I mean, after all, I am a mom, I have a crew off hooligans learning their way in the world, and that could drive anyone to the brink of insanity.

Frequently, in my daily swim in a sea of testosterone, I am repeatedly asked the same questions over and over, and the same remarks are made in regards to the sex of my offspring.

Here are a list of my top 10, but trust me, there are many many more.

#10. All boys?Β why yes! you are quite astute.

#9. It must get loud! yes, as most children do at one time or another, it does get loud.

#8. Wow, there must be a lot of smells! well, considering my children bathe, and are not cavemen, it doesn’t smell any more than any other human being would. but thanks for the concern for our hygiene.

#7. Boys are so much easier than girls – lucky! really!? is that so? thanks for letting me know.

#6. I am so glad I don’t have boys please come and say this to me when your girls are in their teens and you’re up-stream in estrogen river, and I am happily swimming in my sea of testosterone.

#5. Your grocery bill must be insane! yes, it is quite absurd, as most people’s are these days, but at least I will never have the enormous beauty costs that moms of girls will have.

#4. Boys aren’t as affectionate as girls, my girls always snuggle and want to cuddle well, that is interesting to learn. I will be sure to contemplate this remark the next time I have all three of my boys sitting on or beside me, giving me a hundred hugs and kisses every night, and telling me they love me more times a day than I can count.

#3. Bet you wish you had a girl – all that pink and pretty stuff is fun! nope.

#2. Gonna try for a girl? FUCK NO. I am fixed. My husband is fixed. We are done done done.

#1. Guess you will just have to keep trying for a girl! listen to me very carefully, I have 3 boys. I adore my boys. My life is complete. I do not feel like I am missing anything. I do not feel like I was shorted in life. I do not feel like I am less whole without someone with pigtails and attitude sauntering through my house. I am sure people adore their girls. But you know what? I adore my boys. PERIOD.

 

Maybe people should just stick to their own business and stop trying to tell me what sex of human to have in my house. I am a single female in a house of males, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Diabetic monster..

I read a very sad story tonight about a young and promising college athlete with type 1 diabetes who, like so many other people before him, quietly passed away in his sleep due to a low blood sugar. . It sneaks up, often without warning, those unpredictable nighttime lows. And without warning, if you’re not careful, they can sneak up and steal the most precious things on earth.. it doesn’t take long, and it comes without any noise or alarm. Just poof…….

My heart shattered into so many pieces while reading that story, the pieces could not ever possibly be counted… Because that is my main fear with my son. The highs and lows during the day we can handle; they are completely manageable.. While they are entirely infuriating and sometimes frustrating beyond belief, it is something that we can easily deal with. It’s the lows that sneak up at night.. that is where the terror lies.

After he’s given us his hundred hugs and said his million “I love you’s” and tucked himself into bed, that’s the scary part. Because when so many other children go to bed and peacefully slumber, only afraid of the monsters under their beds and in their dreams, diabetics are constantly in a battle with their own kind of nighttime monsters. And it is the parents of these humans that fight their own variation of these monsters. My son is still too young to fully manage himself; one day, it will be in his hands (I will always remain in the background… whether he likes it or not!) So, for the time being, it is on my shoulders to keep him on this earth, and as healthy as possible, and for as long as possible.

I haven’t slept through the night in months. I get my son to check himself when he goes to bed, then I check him when I go to bed a couple hours later, then I get up every single night at 3 am and check him again. I should be exhausted, I should feel drained beyond measure. But when it comes right down to it, that is my baby’s life there, and I am not willing to sacrifice it for 15 extra minutes of sleep. I jump out of bed and happily/groggily check his tiny little finger, only lit by the hall light, and he sleeps right through it. He sleeps through a sharp object blowing a hole into his delicate finger skin, me squeezing a drop of blood out, wiping it off, and squeezing another, and the incessant beeping of his glucose monitor. Then, once I have his reading, I either tuck him in and slunk back to bed, or rip to the fridge to grab his emergency juice (also known as his big brothers regular juice boxes… ah, the simple life) He even sleeps through me ramming straws into his mouth and forcing him to drink enough juice to bring him out of his lows (of which require me to recheck his finger every 15 minutes until he is back to an acceptable reading.. which means, I have to keep blowing holes and squeezing blood until he is back to a good level)

I’ve read stories of mothers who haven’t slept through the night in 20 years because of their Type 1 children. And that is absolutely going to be me. If there was ever a question before that I was going to be an overbearing mother and one of the ones who are still a constant in their children’s lives when they’re older, I have no doubt in my mind that I’m going to be now. Sorry future girlfriends, after everything I’ve been through with him, you’re just going to have to put up with me!

He is 10. He has a lot of years left ahead of him. And if it means I lose sleep for the foreseeable future, so be it; it means he wakes up every morning. If it means my cell phone bill is more every month, just so he can text me his levels, so be it; it means I know he is safe, and I always get a ton of “i love you” texts, and there’s nothing wrong with that. If my grocery bill goes up so he can have the best possible foods for him, and always be prepared, so be it; it means he has the best shot at being completely healthy and happy.

My son  is a Type 1 Diabetic. But he is so much more than that. He is my son, and I intend on helping him figure out exactly what else he is going to be.
  

“baby” always applies…

I read this article the other night, and before I knew it, tears were involuntarily pouring and running down my cheeks. This lady was talking about her boys, and how they are no longer chubby cheeked toddlers, but these little mini-men who were pulling away into lives of their own, and my heart shattered.

I have three boys, spanning in age from 13-4. There is a big gap in there because the youngest is a product of my second marriage, and what I fondly call my “second chance at a happy ending”. My husband swooped in and saved me from myself, showed me that love is real, how it feels, and how swollen a heart can get when it is literally overflowing with love. I have ALWAYS adored my boys; for the longest time, they were the only source of my heart swelling feelings. Then I had a third little boy and got remarried, and now my heart is so full, it feels like it couldn’t possibly fill any more. But then I think about everything these boys are going to do and become, and I’m reminded of just how much more love I am going to encounter in my life.

My oldest is about to turn 13. A teenager. Really? How did that happen? I realize time has passed, I’m not that daft. But it feels like just a few months ago I was bringing this tiny little thing with a white-blonde mohawk home from the hospital. My first kid, at the absurdly young age of just 22. And there we were, learning it all together. He was a lot of firsts for me, the biggest being the first time I felt true, deep and real love. Until I held him in my arms, I just had no idea how real love felt. 

Then came my second bouncing baby, a mere 2 years and 3 months later. This one was a bit more of a struggle to get into the world. He’s been a stubborn little shit from the get-go. But again, I held him in my arms, and my heart pounded in a different way than it had even earlier that day. Having kids changes you. You don’t make room in your heart for them, your heart grows to accommodate all of the new love for these tiny little pieces of you. 

It was many years before my uterus housed another rib-cage orangutan. My oldest was 8 and middle was 6 when the final addition to our family came into the world. After my first two boys, and my husband and love of my life, I didn’t think my heart could grow bigger or pound harder than they made it, but I was wrong. My littlest guy was the final piece of our puzzle, and my heart finally felt complete. 

These little humans, these little pieces of me, they will always be my baby’s. From the moment they were a thought, until this very second, I have been around for every single moment of their lives. I know their looks, their tones, their noises, their laughs, their snores, their souls.. They are the best pieces of me and the biggest part of my heart.

Every time I refer to one of them as my “baby” I get a fresh serving of hell from certain people in my life. I’m not calling them a baby, nor am I being a clingy helicopter mom. But let’s face it, whether anyone approves or agrees, those three will always be my baby’s. When I look at them, I can still hear their baby noises in my head, remember my first scary moment with them, remember their first laughs, their favorite first foods, hear their tiny little cries, remember when they crawled, walked, ran, jumped, hurt themselves, said mommy.. Even typing it, my heart is pounding differently. 

People may get defensive and combative about mothers and their “special” bond with their children. That’s not to say that dads don’t feel things, too. But at the end of the day, my bond and attachment with my kids will always be a million times different than anyone else’s, because regardless of how much daddy’s love their baby’s, my kids heard my heart beat from the inside. Sure, they are half their fathers, but kids physically take, and keep, parts of their moms from when they were in the womb. I will always have a special attachment to my kids. And it will always be something that no one but me will understand or feel. 

Thinking about them growing up, not hugging me anymore, never being home, choosing their girlfriends over family time, going off to college, getting their own homes, having their own lives.. It makes me proud and excited, but it pulls at my heart – the heart that each of them helped build and expand – and it turns on my eyeball faucets. I’m so excited for their futures, because I know I’ve raised them to be the best versions of themselves.. But for now, for the time I have left, I’m going to kiss their foreheads while they sleep, rub their heads while they have breakfast in their pajamas, let them hug me a million times a day, smile when they call me mommy (mom is not far off), watch cartoons with them on Saturdays, laugh at their really silly jokes, listen to their stories, and look into their sweet innocent eyes – the same eyes I looked into when they were only minutes old. 

They’re my baby’s. They always will be. And even when they’re too old to call me mommy, that’s who I’m always going to be. 

Not all sunshine and rainbows..

The last few days have been trying. That’s not to say that the previous days were particularly easy, but we were handling it.

Slight catch up. My middle son got diabetes in November. And it has not been all sunshine and rainbows since then. I am beyond grateful that we caught it when we did, but a part of me will always grieve for the piece of my son that was lost on that day. He is such a beautiful boy, with an amazing heart and a promising future. He is so full of life and humor and love. And no matter what we do now, and how hard we try, there will always be a part of him that was taken away that day. I will fight until my dying breath to make sure that my baby is happy and taken care of, and always do my best to remind him of his inner light.

But like I said, the last few days have been hard on him. There is so much about this stupid asshole disease that is literally left up to trial and error. There is so much guessing and testing and trying. So much of it resides in the grey. It is not as cut and dry as most diseases, and that makes it SO FUCKING INFURIATING!

Why? Why are his normally stable numbers all of a sudden creeping up? From a steady 6-8 to an 11, then 14, then 15, and then from there, there was no going back. We battled. We rallied. We racked our brains as to how to fix it, why it was happening, what could have caused it… We threw out his insulin and gave him a new cartridge, we revamped our meal plan, I went through 2 months worth of numbers and food logs and checked for any patterns, we made him sleep more, drink more water, have more protein, increased the insulin to carb ratio, increased his lantus dose… I did everything that any professional would do in my position.. and then I hit my breaking point.

I caved and called the Health Link. In my province, it is a call center run by nurses who listen to symptoms and help you decide if you need the doctor or emerg or maybe some allergy pills. More often than not (I would say 98% of the time) they send you to the doctor anyway, but I still call. I will not be doing that again! While it is useful for some things, they are not allowed to do shit about kids with diabetes. I told her “I have everything sorted, I just have one question” and I asked it, and all she did was reprimand me on his numbers and told me to call his nurse. THANKS TIPS!! After completely exacerbating myself with that very nice, albeit completely useless, woman, my sons diabetic nurse finally called me back.

Our regular nurse is no longer at the health unit, so we have a new lady that I have yet to meet. She seemed very nice, but upon telling her my story, my frustration overfloweth, and I had a little breakdown while on the phone with her. We talked for an hour, she reassured me that I was doing everything right, and that I was a good mom and he was lucky to have me… but I can not begin to tell you how broken I felt. While she did make me feel a bit better, and we did hash a few things out and get some ideas going between the two of us, I still feel like I am failing my son because I can’t fix him!

Why is he high? These are the reasons we came up with….

  • he was left high all weekend and his body built up a resistance to insulin (yes, that bullshit is legit)
  • he is going through a growth spurt
  • he didn’t sleep enough and his body is feeling insulin resistant
  • he is fighting some sort of infection or illness
  • he is dehydrated
  • he is stressed out about something
  • he isn’t rotating his injection spots enough and his tummy is building up an insulin resistance
  • his insulin was somehow exposed to extreme temperatures and it’s garbage
  • his carb ratio needs to be adjusted
  • he needs more of his all-day-long insulin
  • his “honeymoon” phase is over
  • who. fucking. knows.

There are literally so many reasons why diabetics sugar levels go all psycho, but all I know, is that his did. I do know a few of those things are true, and I busted my ass for him to rectify that which was done wrong for him (no fault of my own).

I am his person. I fight for him, so he doesn’t have to. I fight and bust my ass and lose sleep and feel insane, so he can have a semblance of a childhood. But we still had to get to the root cause of his stupid high numbers.

He has had a runny nose, but hasn’t complained once. Not once! So after he texted me his lunchtime number today, I decided to pull the mommy card and yank him out of school, so I could have him home for a big chunk of time, and focus on him and getting him better. Being excited can raise blood sugar, and with him already higher than I would like, I figured being at school would just perpetuate it. So, he came home! And on the way home, he was really sniffly. It hit me! “is there any sort of pressure or pain in this part of your nose?” And he said yes. BAM. I had my answer (well, part of it.) It is now believed that after his numbers were left high for a whole weekend, his body was stressed enough to allow him to get sick again. I gave him a sudafed (pharmacist approved) and had him drink a liter and a half of water, gave him his correction insulin… and for the first time in 4 days, I got him below 10!! I almost cried. He almost cried. And I kept it down all day. It was one of those moments where you just feel totally relieved.. and yet, stressed at the same time.

This is his life now! This is what we have to look forward to forever. Any time he is sick, or stressed, or excited, or sleep deprived, going through puberty, doesn’t drink enough water, his body decides to be an asshole, etc etc… I feel so sorry for him.

This whole disease is a crock of shit. I am just hoping and praying that there are some amazing advances in the field in his lifetime, so he can maybe have a bit of an easier time.

But for now, know this. Diabetes sucks ass. It is a crock of shit. My heart shatters when I think of what my funny happy baby has to go through now. But I will be by his side, doing what I can, for as long as I can. And maybe even longer.. haha, I am pretty stubborn, I’m not sure I will ever allow anyone to tell me I am not needed. Oh yes, I believe I may be one of “those” mothers… bwahahaha!!