High Points and Low

Some days, there are just great highs and great lows. And for once, I'm not even talking about my blood sugars.

I was all set to blog about the fact that I cleaned out my closet today and for the first time in a few years, I fit into clothes I last wore before I was pregnant. Work ensembles fit me well. These great red and green and brown pants... all fit like a glove.

(And to be clear, I'm talking about three *separate* pairs of pants. Not one multicolored one).

So Woohoo! for losing the baby weight a mere 18 months after the kid came out. As I've said before, some women just nurse and their baby fat slips away. I have to train for a couple of triathlons to get pounds moving. Whatever works, right? 

Rock on.

I even thought about fashion philosophy as I tried on clothes this morning. How I've never been into fashion in the way that women's magazines showcase the topic, all because I've never been the size or shape that these magazines cater to. Plus, I tend to shop at TJMaxx and Ann Taylor Loft, rather than Burberry or Saks or Marc Jacobs (three stores that figured prominently in the fashion pages of the last magazine I worked at). But going through these clothes in my closet made me realize that it's not just skinny rich people who can enjoy style. Us larger gals who don't spend triple digits on one pair of pants are just as capable as dressing well and looking good. 

Then I wondered how long would this clothing euphoria last, anyway, if I'm trying to get pregnant and if history is any sign, I will likely balloon right out of those green pants a week or two after a positive pregnancy test? And how many years will it be before I can shoehorn my ass back into these clothes, anyway?

(Though can I just say how excited I was that I *did not* need a shoehorn to get into these pants this morning? Last fall, I did. Today, ne shoehorn pas.)

And then I thought, who am I kidding? It took me a year to get pregnant before. Who says it won't take a year, or longer, or never, to get there again?

While I last wrote about the Mister and I going to the doc's to get the go ahead to try conceiving again, there's already been a red flag. Apparently my thyroid meds aren't working hard enough, and my TSH levels are way out of line. Conceiving at this time wouldn't be good. So now I've upped my dose and need to wait another five weeks or so to see if they kick the TSH levels back to where they should be.

(And hello, what else is new? Something isn't working right in the body of Lyrehca. Ho hum. Is this even worth mentioning? But at least this particular ailment should be easily remedied.)

And this isn't even the low I was talking about earlier on. The low point of the day today was getting thrown up on. 

For the second time. 

Out of the mouths of babes. Or in particular, my Baby L. Who isn't even a baby anymore, but will be a year and half later this week. The kid has picked up some sort of stomach bug. Just a week after he finished taking penicillin for an ear infection. And just a week before the Mister and I planned to set him up with two days of day care so I can get some solid work done during the day. 

(And in my neurotic state, I have thought about how kids in day care tend to get sick more. Which makes me wonder if Baby L will get something bad that will stress his immune system, and have him develop Type 1. Which I don't even know if he's genetically inclined to get. Because I could find that information out, but if he is genetically inclined toward Type 1 diabetes, what am I going to do with that information, other than think about it all the time? And aren't I already doing something like that if I'm thinking that daycare may trigger a type 1 diagnosis?)

It's not like diabetes doesn't already permeate Baby L's life, in a way. He's never had a sip of juice, but he looks at me quizzically when I suck down a juice box to treat a low. ("It's Mama's medicine," I explain.) I keep a bottle of Ketostix by his changing table to try to see if he's ever spilling sugar in his urine (though every time I try to get some of his pee from a particularly full diaper onto one of those strips, I usually fail and the strip remains pretty dry.) And while maybe you know Metro Station's catchy "Shake It," I bet I'm the only person who sings it while waving the Ketostix bottle at her son to distract him during a diaper change. Baby L is at the point where he would rather squirm on the diaper pad than lie serenely as I work a Pamper onto his tush. So I grab the bottle and sing "Shake, shake, shake, shake the Ketostix!" 

Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. But I always manage to get the diaper fastened.

Now if I could only figure out what to sing and shake so my Boy doesn't ralph all over me again.