I was having a day. A very bad day. I’ve been having a lot of those, it seems. This day, however, was just packed with very bad things. First, my daughter fell from the top bunk bed (she’s fine, thank god). She knows how to climb up, but coming down is obviously a problem. Soon after, Buzz broke the glass on one of my picture frames. I may have yelled, harshly. A little while later, I cried the ugly cry over the phone. Then, Abby dropped her plate of dinner to the floor. Twice. There’s nothing quite like picking rice out of carpet.
As dinner was over, I dispensed the drink order. Milk, chocolate milk, apple juice. Abby prefers to drink her milk out of a big girl cup now. She took a few sips and placed it on the coffee table in front of the sofa. Buzz came along and picked it up, playing a game of keep-away with the half cup of liquid.
I’ve been playing this game enough to sense yet more bad things about to happen when I’d already had enough bad things happen that day to normally last a week, I took the cup away and put it in the refrigerator. Abby, however, insisted rather indignantly that she wasn’t done and retrieved her drink.
“If you guys spill it, I’m going to be mad”, I warned. The words hadn’t even completely left my lips before there was a puddle of white milk sinking into my already messy carpet.
I couldn’t get mad, however. Because I saw Jedi, who was burying his face in the couch pillow, an attempt to squelch his laughter.
“Are you laughing?”, I asked him.
“I didn’t mean to”, he replied, “the diabetes makes me laugh when I’m not supposed to.”
I didn’t think it was possible, but I guess we found the one positive to having diabetes: you can apparently blame it for everything.