Am trapped in my bedroom while K’s piano lesson transpires in the living room. Spaced out while straightening up and next thing I knew, no time to grab a book or the stack of cards I need to address; at least the laptop was already on my bed, although a certain irony arises over the fact I’d tucked it away in the bedroom as part of my determination to stay off the computer today.
Anyway, here I am, still feeling a bit off kilter, most likely the result of two straight nights of two-hour-incremental blood sugar checks with little sleep in between. All night long, both nights, the meter served up numbers in the 300 range despite ongoing insulin administrations. But during the day? Just fine. Around midnight last night we changed his set — sticking that needle in my kid’s back is never easy under the best of circumstances, but bleary-eyed and in bad lighting? I accidentally pulled off the sticky tape too early, wasting a set. At least I didn’t screw up the actual insertion. Poor kid.
Earlier, we’d attended his first martial arts testing and demonstration since he started Hwa Rang Do. He did great. I’d love to write more about it, but he’s become sensitive to my public sharing of our private lives, so I’ll leave it at “beaming with pride.” We’d intended to hit a friend’s party after, but the aforementioned lack of sleep had me too sketched out to socialize, so we ended up renting DVDs instead. Nick and I are kinda surgical-strike choosers of movies: go in, get something good, get out. Meanwhile Bobby likes to take his time perusing, putting some thought into our options. In hindsight, we may have been a tad impatient with him at LDV.
And when did family movie night transform from Harry Potter to The Untouchables? With Pulp Fiction next up? Oh, innocence departs with such stealth.
Never made it to the beach today, but the house is clean, food is made, social plans await and Christmas doesn’t seem quite so impossible after all.
However, this streak of missing every single holiday party I’ve been invited to is rather embarrassing. Worst social fail of my butterfly-like history. Hope it’s not a sign I’m devolving into a recluse.