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We found 10 result(s) that match your search "clothing issues":

I feel like such a mean dad.

 

I am the father of two very awesome kids. My son is 14 and my daughter is 10. They are both very smart and well mannered kids. My wife and I are extremely blessed in that they are both good kids. We thank God all the time for them.

 

I am usually considered the "cool dad" with my kid and their friends and as much as I am "cool" I am also pretty strict. I have definite rules with my kids and as long as they do not break them then they have lots of freedoms. Break a rule and freedoms are gone.

 

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Christmas means joy. Christmas means tales of sugar plums dancing in children's heads. Christmas means Christmas dresses.

This past holiday was my first pumping Christmas, which meant learning how to "graze" and square bolus at all the parties, how to watch for trends from "holiday stress" and how to buy a Christmas dress fit for a pump.

Typically, finding a dress is hard enough. I'll try on one hundred to find one. Some are too fancy, some are the wrong color, some are just ugh! But never has one been unfit for a pump. Until this Christmas.
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Tomorrow is the JDRF Promise Ball. I still haven’t figured out what I’m going to wear. Since it’s black tie, I wanted to wear one of the many evening gowns I have laying around (from prom and other balls). So last week, I tried on the main one I wanted, but I didn’t feel comfortable.

 

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The weather outside has been relatively mild the past couple of weeks -- but you'd hardly know it from looking at me. I've been fairly consistently wearing base layers underneath my short-sleeved workshirts, multiple layers of polar fleece indoors, consuming more commercially-made soup than is good for me, drinking copious amounts of coffee, and still feeling chilled and unable to warm up.

 

Lest you think it's all in my head, my hands have been turning blackish from my fingernails to my knuckles -- and my toes, likewise. It's not the first autumn that I've had to deal with these issues, but it seems ridiculous that I should have to wear base layers designed to be worn for outdoor winter sports (these garments actually come with warnings to not wear them in conditions over 55 degrees Fahrenheit!) indoors just to keep from constantly shivering, yawning, and doing everything else that suggests I'm running borderline hypothermic.

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This morning in the shower I tried to plan out what I would wear today. Brown capri pants, for sure, I thought. They are comfy and roomy. The shirt I wanted to wear, though, was waded up on a shelf. Seriously, I'm not in high school anymore, why don't I put my clean clothes away?

 

Anyway. The brown capris felt a little loose and looked pretty baggy as I looked myself over in the mirror. Hmph, I thought. Maybe the black capris would be better; I'm just not feeling this brown thing today.

 

Same deal with the black capris, but I was running out of time -- and clothing options -- so I went with the black ones. Whatever, I'm a desk jockey so I can live with it.

 

But the more I moved around the more I realized that my pants were actually too big! Not just a little loose, but like a size or two too big.

 

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The other day, I took Olivia shopping for clothes. She'd received some money for Christmas and was eager to spend it, as 13 year-old girls are wont to do.

We schlepped down to the mall and started looking and I was appalled. Not by skimpy or slutty clothing, but by the sizes. I don't know who they are making these clothes for, but some of the size smalls would have fit my three year-old.

Olivia isn't skinny. She's built like me - busty and hippy. It's a pain in the butt to shop when you're built like that. But she only weighs 130 lbs - she's not overweight. She's normal. She's curvy. She looks like a young woman, not like a scare crow.

As I helped her pick out clothes and watched her try stuff on, I could see the discouragement and pain on her face. Nothing fit. Even larges were too snug. She was almost in tears by the end of the day. I felt so bad for her because I know exactly what she's going thru.
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I am all for national security. I travel at least twice a year by plane. And I like to know that terrorists, hijackers, and others aren't sitting next to me on that plane considering when to take it down. I like to know that the guy next to me doesn't have a bomb in his shoe...or his underwear.

 

But I'm also conservative when it comes to my rights and privacy being stripped from me. Call me crazy, call me Texan, but I'm all for concealed carry or even open carry in specific circumstances. On Facebook, I'm a fan of the "Concealed Carry on Campus" group. Too many school shootings could be prevented by licensed, regulated gun owners. The bad guys will always get the guns anyway, so if I know the good guy also has a gun...well I like the odds a whole lot better.

 

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There's no way around it: I'm almost completely out of real estate on my belly for infusion sets. My lower abdomen is my favorite place for pump sites because they give me such good numbers. If I go too high above my belly button or too far out toward my hips I hit some serious snags.

 

Most site-change mornings have me searching much too hard for a place that doesn't have a scar or isn't a place I've already tried with disastrous results. While I get OK numbers when I use my hips the sites get too damaged from my clothes for some reason.

 

This morning came down to it: I had to try something different. I tried to stand as naturally as I could while I searched for a place on my inner thigh that wouldn't get too much static from my clothes and wouldn't interfere with walking.

 

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Sometimes it takes a while to figure things out with diabetes. This disease is certainly not an exact science, which is why it's so flipping frustrating sometimes!

 

There was an incident a few months ago with me having wild spikes high and low and then being in the pediatrician's office and thinking I was going to faint from a low blood sugar that all made me realize my tried and true infusion sites were likely burned out.

 

I love using my lower abdomen for a number of reasons: good absorption and the set is less likely to be disturbed by clothing. But I needed to give my abdomen a break, so I started going with my hips; however, my pants ripped out one too many sites.

 

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Have you ever played the superpower game?  You know, the one where you select a superpower. 

 

If I could have a superpower, it would be the power to mend.  When I say mend, I mean I'd want to be able to fix broken things, sew on patches to life's tears, make things right. 

 

But in playing the superpower game, it's always best to consider consequences.  With my power, how would I decide what needs mending?  How would I decide which broken things should remain broken?  How would I manage the needs of so many and so much - the desperate pleadings of people who hope beyond hope for repair of some kind?  How would I handle the disappointment of those whose requests for mending butted up against my own judgment that some things should stay torn?  

 

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