I've not slept well these past few nights.

Not only am I in a strange bed in a place that has not been "home" for over eight years, I'm trying to deal with the financial, emotional, and logistical elements of our current situation. Rather than resting and staying asleep, my mind is trying to figure out how to move our office into our already-packed living room, plus adding additional book cases and filing cabinets, without sacrificing my ability to put up my sewing machine, keep my only means of transportation (bicycle) in the apartment, and find space for sentimental treasures, plus finding a way to monetize that which we cannot keep or store, so that we can finance the process.

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In a word, last night was crazy. And I think I have a problem. OK that's more than one word.

So I've been getting about 10-12 days out of my Dexcom sensors (woot!) and decided to order another box after I opened my last sensor. Big mistake because that sensor went bad after less than 12 hours. So while I had ordered the next box, there was a holiday thrown in the mix and I wound up without sensors for about a week. (Next time I'll reorder when I have two left.)

So I was readjusting to life after a four-day holiday weekend and to finally having Dexcom back. Last night Dexcom apparently screamed at me more than once. The Mr. said it alarmed three times. I only remember the time I looked at it and it said I was 50 mg/dL. And then I remember thinking this exact thought: There's no way I'm 50. I'm not 50. I don't feel 50. Stupid sensor.

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It was a conscious decision to not walk this morning. A decision made way before my alarm went off at 5 a.m. I felt guilty as soon as I made it, but I had good reason.
 

Yesterday, I worked from home and was really plowing through my to-do list. I was having a great day. I took No. 1 to the orthodontist after putting lasagna in the oven and giving The Mr. instructions for what to do if I wasn’t back before the timer went off. When I got home, I think everything caught up with me. Or something like that.
 

I laid down on the couch and watched the kids play-wrestle with The Mr. I started feeling myself drift off and feeling my stomach turning. My face felt flush and hot. I asked The Mr. to get the lasagna out when the timer went off. I laid there, almost incapacitated. I drifted way off only to be jerked awake by one of the kids playing.
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It's 10:30 p.m.

I'm in bed. In my night shirt.

I'm coughing, although I took (sugar-free) cough syrup.

I'm in bed.

I check my sugar.

76.

Crap. I can't go to bed this low.

But I'm already in bed.

I'm tired.

I'm coughing.

Must get up early to go to mass with No. 1.

Can't convince myself to go downstairs and drink a glass of milk.

Because I'm already in bed.

The floor is cold.

I'm coughing and tired.

The milk is downstairs.

My bed is warm.

The kitties are snuggly.

Now would be a nice time to see a trend line.

I took the sensor off five hours ago.

I'm. Already. In. Bed.

Waking in a cold sweat will not be fun.

The milk is downstairs.

My cough medicine isn't working.

Rain is soothing and wants me to go to sleep.

My bed is warm.

The floor is cold.
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I have a confession: I haven't exercised since before Thanksgiving. E-gads! Ugh, and I'm so feeling it. My pants are feeling tighter, I'm more tired, I'm more cranky, it's harder to bend over and tie my shoes, blah, blah, blah.

There are so many excuses I could hand out for this (stress being a big one), all of which would come back to me staying up later (right now it's almost my bedtime and I should be getting ready for bed and not writing, for example) and, therefore, having trouble forcing myself out of bed in the morning. I tried blaming it on my alarm clock, too, but I think even that is a cop out.

I absolutely hate making New Year's resolutions. I can never stick to them and I never have really taken them seriously. I don't really know how to get myself to stick to that kind of goal. (READ MORE)

It was still dark when the baby started fussing this morning. I quietly rushed to her room so that neither her crying nor my footsteps on the creaky wood in our century-old house would wake anyone else.

"Shhh, shh, shh," I consoled as I picked her up, bouncing gently hoping she would think it was still nighttime.

Her pointer and middle fingers promptly went into her mouth and she rested her head on my shoulder. Those baby snuggles are something so wonderful. We quietly walked back to my room where we climbed into bed with The Mr. Who was snoring. As usual.

No. 3 settled fairly well for it being around 6 a.m. I knew I should have counted my blessings yesterday when we all slept until almost 8 a.m.

Listening to the rhythmic snoring and the intermittent sound of No. 3 sucking on her fingers, I started to hear my body talking to me, as well. (READ MORE)