And Troy’s ready to throw down on the grill.

In turn, that makes me think of the time she did this and I laugh. And then I remember how much I hated pumping and how glad I was to sell that damn thing on Craigs.

We decided on the the Mini Med pump and she should be hooked up and ready to go in July. Everyone keeps telling us we will love it and I really hope we do. I don’t mind giving her shots, but her arms can get so bruised up from the injections and it’s totally not cool to have your mom say “Give me a butt cheek” when you are in the middle of Red Robin trying to order your bacon burger. Here’s hoping she likes it and doesn’t try to list it on eBay.

She is pretty stoked that it comes in different colors and really that’s what sold her on it, never mind that it is an advanced, high tech insulin delivery device when it comes in PURPLE. She also liked that the practice infusion set was inserted onto a fake whoopee cushion.

During the appointment, they also trotted out Lenny The Insulin Dependent Lion where you can practice set changes or sight changes, I’m not sure of my pump lingo yet.

Zoe was all, “Do I have to wear three or just one?”

I know this is supposed to be kid-friendly but it makes me sad. I feel the same way about Rufus. Stuffed animals and children shouldn’t deal with diabetes, actually no one should. SUCK ASS DIABETES.

Zoe isn’t phased by it too much, as check up/pump decision appointments are a wonderful opportunity to sit on your brother while waiting to turn in your urine sample.

Turns out he’s a big fan.

It also turns out he really likes socks.

On Sunday the weather was nice and since the garage wasn’t cleaning itself, we were going to have to actually make an effort.

Which meant pulling everything out onto the driveway like the Clampetts. I don’t have a photo of that because Jeff took my phone so I would focus and not play Candy Crush.

I made a donate pile, a free pile, and a sell on Craigs pile. Here’s the kitchen table that we purchased with our kitchen chairs, bring me $25 and it is all yours.

My mother saves everything. Sometimes this is great:

Great:

Freaking awesome:

It’s a pencil holder, clearly:

Sometimes her hoarding makes you go WUT:

And sometimes her hoarding is scary as hell:

I also ran across some of my belongings, good to have a backup career plan:

Found my Pogs collection, probably can retire now:

After almost six hours of straight up hard work, we can park one car in our garage.

I still would like to knock that stack of shit on the left down, but I need to recover first. Moving junk around is no joke.

Zoe and her teammate were going to her school district’s Forensics competition (it’s acting/speech, not for crime scenes) and just take a wild guess what script they were dealt?

I MEAN, YOU HAVE GOT TO BE SHITTING ME.

Zoe and her teammate decided Zoe would read the part of Shelby because DUH.

I actually stayed out of this as much as I could. I drove her to the competition at 7:45 in the morning on a Saturday and when we signed her in and learned that the performances were taking place in various classrooms throughout the middle school, I was able to gracefully bow out. And by bow out, I mean I told her I would be back at lunchtime and good luck and I tore out of that parking lot and went to get a pedicure.

When Zoe texted me and said she had a break and was ready to eat, I came back with her lunch and SURPRISE! Zoe and her teammate made it all the way to the finals and I was more than welcome to sit in on the performance that was pretty much my worst nightmare.

Before the performance started, Zoe said “Are you going to be normal? You know it’s just a part from an ordinary play” because even though she was only nine when she was diagnosed, she probably remembers her mother breathing into a Target bag the first two weeks every time someone said “Diabetes”.

So I went and sat in the very back of that classroom because that’s what supportive mothers do and tried to disregard the fact that the script is based on the playwright’s sister that was an actual diabetic the events actually occurred within his family. I watched as my Type One diabetic sixth grade daughter “acted” like a Type One diabetic grown up daughter while my role as her controlling mother was played by her 12 year old friend. I listened to that hateful, ordinary play and just kept telling myself that this isn’t 1985 and as Diabetics have healthy babies all the time echoed over and over in my head, I pretended to be normal and gave thanks for my extraordinary daughter.

Because sometimes that’s all you can do.