Seven o’clock-ish after run, head out to shower same time husband get off of phone. Susan wants to know if we want to meet at the clam shack. Yesssss. So happy eat lobster rolls, no wash yucky taco pan. Sure! Yes! Twenty minutes? Yes! Drink beer/wash face in attempt stop sweating, because now no time shower.
Lovely clam shack night. Sliver of moon set between houses everyone agree unpretentious yet lovely waterside. Bubs order fish and chips, chowder. Mom, do you think I should bolus three units to get started while we wait for the food? (Read Bigfoot mind!)
You read my mind.
Children beanbag toss game on seashell patio/adults talk. Fresh beer arrive. After first taste realize: drunk. BOOM. Combination of hot, run, sweat, not eat, not drink water, drink beer. So sudden. Catch Joe’s eye, mouth I am drunk. Joe lip read, shake head/amusement, probably think I am so glad I teamed up with this capable person.
Search bag for pen. Three units, three units, need to remember three units, three units equals forty-five carbs, battered fish is…? Fries…? Chowder…? Will there be oyster crackers? Oh ugh they love oyster crackers. Not find pen. Try squeeze number tight in fist of brain but feel information crumble away. Arrrrgh too dumb. Tell Joe three units.
Food arrive: oyster cracker wrapper report 11g CHO; fish very small, maybe 5g like McNugget? Fries not many, also not very tasty, maybe not eat. Chowder? Chowder high or low carbs? Mostly cream/mostly potato? See Calorie King told-you-so grin from bag. Not able deal w royalty—zip bag shut.
Before Bigfoot rip open fish taco wrapper: Mommy, I’m full. Shit. Three units…45g CHO…probably ate…one-fifth chowder, crackers all or some or none, tiny fish, some chips…30g? 25g? Why prebolus three? Three huge units. Shit shit shit.
And then: glossy white miracle appear Bubs’s hand. Can I eat these for like a dessert? Goldfish crackers but giant, and in form of cinnamon cookie, and in wrapper with nutrition information printed on. 19g CHO. Drunk mother think that’s probably exactly what he needs. And frankly also think I feel like angels are smiling upon me, and why wouldn’t they be?
Kids continue beanbags game, Jack hit Bubs in neck (“accident”), whining begin, Bubs hit friend’s sister in eye (accident, truth), Dexcom reach low 100’s, arrow diagonal down, -90% temp basal 30 minutes, adults talk/eat, feels like time to go, sliver moon lower, lower in sky as Bigfoot less, less tipsy. Check Dex at home:
This is not medical advice. Parents of diabetic children should never bolus under the influence of alcohol, even though my own mild intoxication really seemed to help me nail this fucking chowder to the wall.