parenting with type-1 diabetes

48 months: I am the walrus

Dear Little Ring, Yesterday I was having an absolute crumb of a day, so blah, so lethargic, so lacking motivation. I couldn’t figure out why, and then, it struck me. Just hours remained of my baby being a baby. I love seeing your every growing milestone; I love your wild personality that gets wilder with age; I love the crazy, random conversations your growth has invited me into. But yesterday, the realization that my baby was no longer a baby, no longer a toddler, but a proper, young boy – closer to independence than mama reliance – I’m not going to lie, it stung. In proper, good, Little Ring fashion you turned that sting into a flutter of love. To most, you are not much of a hugger (your papsy credits your German roots for that). But every day, multiple times a day, you give mama hugs. Kisses, however, are …

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36 months: Stink in my butt!

Dear Little Ring, How is my baby already three? How are you already walking, talking, loving, listening, joking, imagining, creating, mischieving, tuning your mama out, running, playing, learning, laughing, being your own you? How is that possible? Just yesterday you were my baby. How do you already have a heart full of compassion? While you don’t readily hand out I love yous (it’s the German thing) when you do, you make them count. Like that time a few weeks ago, when I was in the mud of finals, and was telling Papa Big Ring about my meltdown earlier that day. Your little ears perked up: Did you cry? you asked, a look of concern painted all over your face. Yes, a little, I admitted. Two tears? you asked, a question that seemed completely sound from your mouth. Yep, just two tears, I said, a smile taking over the curves of …

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30.6: “As soon as I saw you, I knew an adventure was going to happen”

Dear Little Ring, My sweet, sweet baby who is no longer a baby. You are the boy who I swear went from two to two and a half in the blink of an eye. The boy who used to let me cuddle him for hours, but who now can’t stay still for more than a second and more often than not squirms when I try to sneak in a hug or kiss. Sigh. The boy who’s been talking for some time now, but only now has truly become a proper parrot as evidenced by your beloved copycat phrases: grody and boogers; oh my gosh; and, oh man, I try not to explode laughing when I hear it, HOLY CRACK! The boy who is so full of thrill and adventure. “Where am I going?” is the first question you ask in the morning, and one of the last you ask before …

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Ramblings of a Type-1 No. 6076

The other day after reading one of my most favourite fellow type-1’s blog posts about a recent low she had, I started reflecting on the lows of my life. This isn’t an unusual thing. I think when something out of your control renders you completely helpless to the point of holy freak that happened and I survived (yes, some have been that dramatic!) it sticks with you and is a constant reminder that no matter how well you manage your Dear Diabetes frienemy, you just never know when her evilness will underhandedly strike you down. I’ve had some doozies over the years; some I’ve already shared, some I will never share. I’ve passed out alone in a ditch; I’ve smashed head first into the corner of a pointed glass coffee table, full weight down; I’ve woken up with my tongue a throbbing, swollen mess and the insides of my cheeks …

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