Nothing ruins a good hair day faster than sudden low blood sugar symptoms. My hair looked awesome today. The idea of having my picture taken for my new Google+ profile bounced around my mind all day. One minute I thought Heath could do it when he got home. The next minute I wondered if I should trust Gavin with my camera. I could hear Parker in my head. “Let me do it! I can do it!” In the end, the picture was never taken and it may not happen today.
The boys have been really good to do their chores almost every day. This week I have been really proud of them. On the days I thought of declaring yet another freebie day in exchange for them getting dressed, no more arguments, or any other random incompatible bargaining chip, they would announce they were cleaning without being asked. Nice! My sense of responsibility has evaporated with the cool, wet winter. While dusting and bathroom cleaning is happening on a semi daily basis, not much else is being done. Until today.
Clean dishes were emptied from the dishwasher while yesterday’s dishes were loaded and washed. The counters were wiped down with disinfecting wipes as well as all the cupboards. It didn’t take long for me to get in the zone. The cleaning zone. A zone where I become oblivious to everything around me except microscopic dirt specks. Thank goodness my peripheral vision still works or I may not have seen Parker sitting in the middle of the upside down pool. There was no time for more than a fervent lecture. All three kids’ eyes widened with surprised understanding.
Toys were cheerfully tossed onto the couch or front entryway to expose all the carpet for vacuuming. The vacuum hummed while the back of my knees started to sweat. Why do I always get into the zone in the heat of the afternoon? My clothes were starting to feel sticky. Ugh, how quickly I forgot the unseasonal cool rain from earlier in the week. Hunger pains grumbled in my stomach. Stupid Zoloft that makes me want to munch all day and now my weight is reflecting it!
Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Temperatures are in the upper 80’s outside. It’s hot. Late afternoon always entices me to invite the kids back in for some boob tube time. All plans suddenly halted in a split second. The bottom layer of my hair suddenly was damp and sweat trickled down my neck. My deodorant dam burst and my armpits were suddenly soaked. The back of my shirt instantly clung to my sopping wet back. Nausea came over me and the room almost spun.
Auto pilot turned on. Good thing since I had spent the last 45 minutes or so pushing myself to finish a thorough cleaning job, telling myself I could rest later. Without even thinking about it I washed my hands and tested my blood sugar. 38. The number barely registered in my mind. I suspended my pump and fumbled with the straw encased in stubborn plastic on a Capri Sun juice pouch. That was sucked down in two seconds flat. Next I grabbed a peanut butter granola bar because I crave them. Halfway through that my conscience started whispering I shouldn’t eat until I feel better. A small package of apple fruit snacks beckoned to me. Still shaking from the low, I tore the package open and shoved them all in my mouth at once. They tasted like real green apples at first. Then they tasted like feet. Was it the odd combination of apple juice, peanut butter, and tart fruit snacks?
The phone rang. Heath told me he was on his way home. I sunk onto the couch to talk to him and recover. When I told him we had planned on breakfast for dinner he came up with some elaborate story about how we didn’t have any thawed bacon. He suggested we go out to eat! How did I know that was coming? No surprise that I agreed because at that point dirt from the ground sounded good as long as it made me feel better. Of course I wanted to indulge in my guilty pleasure – fast food. My momentary hesitation was my hair. It started out looking so good. Now it’s limp, flat, and still slightly damp. I don’t like being jerked back into the reality that I’m still diabetic no matter how hard I try to be “normal.”