I’m sure your house is just like ours in the morning. Your family has just the exact amount of time you need to get everyone clean, fed, clothed, and ready to go off into the world.
Q’s school is starting 15 minutes later this year which helps us quite a bit. But if anything goes wrong, all bets are off.
When I awoke this morning I couldn’t open my eyes. Sealed shut. I’ve been battling allergy eyes all fall and even gave in and bought the teeny tiny bottle of eye drops that cost FORTY-EIGHT dollars.
I was about to make my way to the bathroom for a warm compress when Q came in, a high pitched squeal preceding her entrance.
“Mom, my pod woke me up.”
Before I could unglue my eyes and wash my hands thoroughly so as not to goop up everything I touched, my son came in the room.
“Mommy, when I woke up my eyes had tears.”
Oh no, crusty eyes on him too. Please don’t let us have pink eye!
Okay. Uncrust my eyes. Wash hands. Uncrust 4yo’s eyes. Wash hands again. Grab PDM and look at the records to see what time Q’s pod deactivated and how long she’s been without basal insulin.
6:58 a.m. Good to know. If it had been hours her blood sugar could be through the roof.
Run downstairs to grab a pod, alcohol swab, and Q-tip. Run back upstairs to Q who has snuggled back under her covers.
(I could have grabbed one of the extra pods from our upstairs supply kit, but that would mean replacing it later.)
Start the pod activation process.
Yell down to hubs to bring me a new vial of insulin because I realized I didn’t have quite enough to fill the syringe to the minimum mark.
See big air bubbles. Ask 4yo to go get me the pen that’s on the clipboard in their bathroom.
He brings the whole clipboard and everything on it.
As I fill the pod with insulin 4yo says, “I wish I had diabetes.”
I say, “No you don’t.”
To which he says, “If I can’t have diabetes at least I can play guitar.”
Okay. Have no idea what that means but he starts playing with several used test strips that were on the clipboard. He shows me the guitar on his t-shirt and strums it with the test strips.
Debate with Q about the best pod placement for roller skating. Decide on her tummy, which she sucked in as the cannula inserted making it sting more than it would have had she just relaxed.
Get Q dressed in her awesome 80’s inspired roller skate tee and send her down for breakfast.
Get in the shower and wash my eyes thoroughly again.
Hubs comes up to get dressed (he makes the kids breakfast every morning and then brushes their teeth & washes their faces while I get my shower).
Realize I was so tired the night before that I forgot to write out guidelines for school staff about roller skating and her blood sugar.
(When I skated with her class the other day she went low afterward despite the pre-PE snack. I want Q to carry her supply bag to class & test her blood sugar afterward & treat/snack accordingly. She normally doesn’t test right after PE, but she skates FAST.)
Typed out a note quickly on the computer. Printed four copies, one for her PE teacher, classroom teacher, nurse, assistant principal. Grabbed them from the printer. Only three? Gah!
Change ink cartridge. Print fourth sheet.
Run downstairs to remote start my car because as my son said earlier “Jack Frost got mommy’s car.”
Wrote out the carbs for Q’s lunch which she packed herself. Stuck her lunch slip in her PDM pouch, put her pouch in her d-supply bag, put her d-supply bag and her lunch in her backpack, and set it by the front door.
Ran back upstairs and dried my hair.
8:20 a.m. In the car and on our way to school. Only 5 minutes late, but plenty of time to get there before the bell.
So, uh, yeah. How was your morning?