I came to this morning, drenched in my own cold sweat, my husband leaning over me, coaxing me to drink chocolate milk through a straw. Low blood sugar. Again. I'm pretty sure this has been my wake-up every morning so far this week. I'm trying to keep my sugar under tight control, and--well, sometimes my mornings are a casualty. These incidents take a lot out of me; I'm usually exhausted and weak (not to mention freezing, after drowning in cold sweat in a house that only gets heated to 60ยบ during the night), and so I end up showering and going straight back to bed for a while.
These mornings are hard on Aaron, too. He gets a late start at work, which pushes his clock-out time later; he has to get the kids their breakfast, and deal with a crying baby because mommy isn't aware enough to take care of the baby herself (I can't tell you how many times these crying babies have saved me from hypoglycemic shock, though!). The kids have it pretty easy; they get to strew toys all over the house, dance naked on the dining room table while eating chocolate chip cookies for breakfast, and cause general mayhem in the absence of coherent adult supervision.
And of course, once this chain reaction gets started, it's harder'n'heck to stop. I don't drag myself out of bed until lunch time, or so; the house is completely decimated by then, and the kids are squabbling over who gets to drive the CozyCoupe Police Vehicle, and the baby is eating garbage that has spilled out of the bathroom trash can. By the time lunch is microwaved (because, really, do you think I'm going to cook on a day like this?) and shoved onto passably clean plates, the day is shot, and all I want to do is sit down and wait for my Fairy Godmother to show up and tidy things up for me. Except, of course, it doesn't work that way.
So here it is, midnight. I have stepped on stray Legos about fourteen times since I tucked the kids into bed four hours ago, toy cars and a Melissa & Doug rhythm band set are littering the living room floor, dirty supper dishes are still on the dining room table, non-perishable groceries and empty grocery bags cover my kitchen counter, one of the dining room chairs sits all askew in the kitchen by the counters where my son pulled it up this morning to retrieve cookies from atop the microwave, the beds haven't been made, the animals are staging a revolt, the baby is wearing clothes that were stained about four days ago, and I'm sitting here, drowning in chaos, so very, very thankful for my life.
I have three beautiful, healthy, and moderately obedient children (I'm giving them a pass, here, but I'm being grateful, so that's allowed, right?). I have a husband who cares enough about me to straw-feed me chocolate milk when my sugar turns me into a raving lunatic (have I told you about the conversations we've had when my sugar has been low? No? Good.). We have a great big giant house that we are not renting, which has enough rooms and closets for all, and is not located in a trailer park, nor is it located in town (yes, I'm counting that as a blessing). We have a paid-for car, and Aaron has a job that pays all of our bills. Have I mentioned my three beautiful, healthy, moderately obedient children and my husband, who drive me all kinds of crazy? Because seven years ago, I had none of that. My life was orderly and organized and perfect. And lonely. So tomorrow I will wake up early and whip my house back into shape, and yell at my kids for playing instead of picking up their cars, and nurse the baby a million times, and cook lasagna for supper, and slouch into my chair at the end of the day exhausted and frustrated, glad the kids are finally in bed. But today--today, I will just be grateful. Chaos be damned.
