If the frequency of blog posts are any type of reflection of the current state of our roost, then my absence on this space the past month would reflect the storm of chaos we’ve been in the eye of lately.
As harvest inched closer, Angus’s blood sugar inched higher. I had a gut feeling he was coming down with something, but I prayed that the Health Gods wouldn’t pile that on our plate right before Judd started cutting. Last week, I came home (from a late night visit with a girlfriend) to a little boy burning up– his skin was on fire! Judd and I went into panic mode– his temperature was 103 and he started screaming out in pain that his tummy hurt. A quick urine test and we were now dealing with a very sick boy with very large ketones. This is the Danger Zone for diabetics.
For the next two days, we were in constant contact with our team at Children’s. We were doubling insulin in attempt to flush out ketones. We were chasing highs– blood sugar and stubborn temperatures. We were even threatened with being admitted. But, we survived. Judd and I are deep enough into this diagnosis that we felt solid in our knowledge of this disease– which in turn, influenced our highly reactive and effective sick-day management.
After Angus was diagnosed, we were handed a binder that read “Sick Day Management.” I was overwhelmed and intimidated that the knowledge we had developed in the past four years– of parenting through snotty noses and puke bowls– did not apply. Diabetes changed everything. I don’t think people quite understand how dangerous a virus can be for someone with Type 1. Because Type 1 is an autoimmune disease, any outside bug that attacks his immune system has the potential to turn life-threatening– just like that.
Consequently, this little virus bumped Angus out of his honeymoon completely. Before, he was able to snack on any foods with 5 grams of carbs or less– not anymore. He is higher than a kite. The amount of insulin is not working. Things are changing and the amount of insulin he requires has almost doubled in the matter of a week.
Beef Creek Jones is feeling back to his high-energy self, just in time for harvest.
So, here we are. This is harvest: We say goodbye to daddy around 6 AM and don’t see him again until almost 9 PM. It’s a long day; a long day for everyone. Because parenting after 6 PM seems to be my Achilles heel, I am eating my fair share of humble pie right now. I’m being practical this year, and because of this, I’m gentler with myself. Screen time seems to increase, the line the I draw in the sand slowly retracts, and structure gets pushed to the back burner. But, this is how I can handle days like this without losing my shit.
Hats off to all the single mamas out there– this job is tough!
To combat the witching hour, we’ve been meeting daddy in the fields. We exchange dinner for a ride in the combine; his buddy makes fun of my footwear choice (Keens in the stubble wasn’t the smartest choice), and Otto baby gets snatched from my arms by a baby-loving grandpa who adorns flannel and greased-stained hands.
These times are to be romanticized. They are worthy.
Let’s not forget the sanctity of the 30th of every month.
Half a year old. Already. How can that be? I’m beating a dead horse with these overly sentimental posts, but I can’t help myself.
Blowing raspberries, clicking his tongue, and whining MA MA MA MA when he gets hungry.
Nursing has become our time to flirt endlessly with each other. He reaches up for my face; I kiss-attack those fat little fingers; he rhythmically pats my collar bone. It takes him 30 minutes to do a 10 minute job, because every time we lock eyes, that tight little latch erupts into a heart-melting smile.
We introduced solids. We peel whole peaches and apples, then let him gnaw on them while we eat our meals. We tried a little mashed up avocado. No good. The green goods really clogged him up. We will try again later.
We’ve entered the early stages of crawling. He rocks back and forth on his knees, only to drop down to his tummy and drag himself to toys.
To top it all off, he magically fit into a 9 month onesie this morning. My silent sobbing just became obnoxiously loud.
Were you worried the middle child would be forgotten in this post? Let me put you at ease.
Now that I’ve purged a month’s worth of mental notes– Happy harvest to all the hard working families out there!