Little Things.

It's a pump infusion site that lasts longer than two days, right down to the last drop.

It's catching that low before you brush your teeth, for once.

It's helping yourself feel better by helping someone else feel better.

It's a pretty number when you didn't expect to see one.

It's that small, defiant tuft of fur on your dog's back that refuses to lie down when he's freshly bathed.

It's being thankful that you were wearing black pants, as that pump site you pulled a couple of minutes ago ended up being a gusher, and now the whole side of your pants is soggy with blood.

It's being thankful that you aren't squeamish.

It's being able to FINALLY thread that damn sewing machine, slightly before going completely Yosemite Sam on it. (I should mention that I haven't sewn since Home Ec class in middle school, and that I bought myself a Singer on Friday through an awesome deal on Amazon. It turns out I can sew straight lines on scrap cloth just fine, thank you, so Project Runway will be my next stop. WATCH OUT.)

It's being thankful for the little things, even if the big things may feel heavier.

It's the little things.

Thanks, Universe.

Today, I'm grateful that my universe is attempting some balance for me.

Because while I may have realized mid-drive this morning that I was headed to work with only enough insulin in my pump for basal (good thing I keep that insulin pen with me - and you KNOW I shot myself in the calf at a stoplight to cover breakfast, because that's how I roll), and the only coffee creamer I had left to bring with me was the Bailey's Irish Cream (it's non-alcoholic, but that doesn't make bringing it to work look any less awkward), I got to wake up to this graph. It happened after completely SWAGing a late-night dinner of fast food "Mexican", and I have absolutely no idea how to replicate this.

I'm not going to question it. I'm just going to appreciate it.

Sometimes, you have to celebrate the little victories.

Why I Love My Teeth.

There aren't many of us who can say we look forward to a trip to the dentist. The promise of a free toothbrush doesn't quite balance the uncomfortable feeling of someone sticking their fingers under your tongue, scratching your teeth with miniature ice picks, and vacuuming the spit out of your mouth. And then, having to pay for it.

For some, this attitude can be applied to seeing doctors in general - it's not the most pleasant way to spend your time.  Those of us who live with diabetes see more than our fair share of healthcare people, and "one more appointment" can feel like that proverbial straw, threatening our motivation camel. (See also: my inner six-year-old, crying and yelling I don't waaaaant toooooooo!) In other words, we'd rather be doing something else.

And here comes the part where I reveal another layer of my weird: I'm not one of those people.

I love going to the dentist.

It's partly because the receptionist starts greeting me, by name and with a smile, before I've even finished passing through the doorway. It's partly because on days like this, where the flakes won't stop whizzing by the window, they let me escape via the super-secret FIRE DOOR: DO NOT ENTER UNLESS DURING EMERGENCY door, because it will let me out mere steps from the mound of snow my car is under. But, mostly, it's because this is the one doctor I can count on getting a gleamingly perfect review from.

I was blessed with very healthy teeth. Looking at some of the dental history in my family, I'm not sure how I drew this lucky card - but I've sometimes wondered if this is that one golden ticket life gave me.

"Your pancreas and thyroid will slack off, and I'm going to call some other things too - but teeth?  Teeth you can have."

When I sit in that plastic-covered lounge chair, I don't have to talk about fasting numbers, or how often I'm testing, or how I gained 3 lbs. since my last appointment. I don't have to get blood drawn. I don't even have to think about anything, really, except for the neat-o pattern on the ceiling, and how fun the hygienist's purple gloves are.

This is the one place where I consistently get to hear things like, "Beeyoooootiful."  "Everything looks GREAT!" and "You really didn't leave me much to work on!  Keep up the great work."  It's a blissful change of pace from "We need to work on these post-prandial spikes", or the dreaded "You need to do basal testing".

My dental office is my health oasis.  (Which, as my friend put it, is "pretty floss-some".)

Diabetes, Cookies And Tradition.

There are some things in life that I'm just not going to cater to diabetes on.

A tray full of assorted homemade Christmas cookies has been a staple at our family December gatherings, for as long as I can remember.  It had always been an aunt or uncle of mine who made these beautiful and delicious creations of my childhood.  There had to be a dozen different kinds, and you had to choose wisely, because there weren't enough of each cookie for everyone to have one of each.  They were in no way healthy - real butter, frosting, icing, etc. - but that wasn't the point.  They were a treat you looked forward to each year.

As years go on, we lose some of those we love, but we don't have to lose the traditions, too.  My aunt and uncle who always did the cookies have passed on, and so for the past 2 years, I've volunteered to pick up those reigns.  I love baking - or anything involving food prep - and specifically, I've come to love baking cookies.  There's something very calming about taking the chaos of a dozen or more ingredients and transforming it into dozens of small, perfect-looking treats.  I enjoy the process probably more than I enjoy the end product.  (Which says a lot - I love cookies.  I totally get this guy.)

The kitchen at my old townhouse, circa 2008.  Counters
were covered in cookies - I think I made 8 varieties that year. 
Which was "parring it down".

So that's where I am - the girl with diabetes, who makes the Christmas cookies.  Ironic?  Maybe.  I think it's important to not let diabetes dictate the things that are really important to you.  If that means eating Christmas cookies, then do it - and bolus accordingly.  The emotional impact of not being "allowed" might be worse than the health impact of a few hours in the 200's.

Diabetes dictates enough in my life.  It doesn't get cookies, too.