I should apparently stop blogging...it seems that upon a new post I spontaneously combust into seizures and basic hypoglycemic misery. I, of course, suffer nothing except a busted up tongue and a few sore muscles but my sweet Justin endures too much. I sometimes don't know why he bothers and I say that without expectation or exaggeration. Like any human, he pushes my buttons but he takes on so much difficulty and misery in being with me and while I am grateful and in love beyond words it doesn't seem like it could possibly be worth it.

I have come to learn that I am generally a miserable bitch of a bitch for about a week post-episode. I have no idea if these bizarre, ephemeral mood swings are a lovely perk for everyone who has hypoglycemic seizures or a special little symptom I've rounded up just for me. However, this time I have worked exceedingly hard, or so I thought, to curb this strange streak of nastiness as I slowly start to feel like myself. Unfortunately I came to find out tonight that not only have I been faking it poorly, but I've been hurting Justin in the process.

I see Haley having a tough time sleeping. I see my sweet husband picking up all my slack and patiently doing his job and mine while I am running around doing jack shit, visiting with friends, and depositing Haley in his care more often than not. I don't know where I lose myself or why but the consistency is deeply troubling. It's like with extreme low blood sugar comes extreme abuse of my Justin.

My first inclination in such situations is to run and hide. I hate dealing with emotions, I hate talking, and most of all I hate talking about MY emotions...hoark. I'm of the mind to take the baby and run for a weekend, leave the world behind and let poor Justin reclaim his manhood and self-respect with a good bottle of scotch and a titty bar. But in my heart I know this is not the answer - running from the problem is never the answer. I suppose, deep inside I only want to run from diabetes but that's a solid ticket for a very short ride. Nothing left to do but chin up, pretend to be a grown up, apologize for being an asshole, and hope for the best.

Had dinner with our lovely team of besties tonight - Sky, Jocelyn, Dave, Jenn, and the newly added, Mickey - who is excellent and makes Jenn, despite herself, blissfully happy. I rounded up some killer new pasta recipes from Cook's Illustrated that had everyone in so much pleasure they were practically blushing - and I must emphasize yet again, this has nothing to do with my cooking abilities but the sheer genius of Cook's Illustrated.

Pasta #1 was my first foray into my much maligned fennel root: Italian Sausage and Fennel Pasta with Pine Nuts, Basil, and Garlic. This was a heavenly pairing with a robust Brunello that Sky kindly toted along. Pasta #2 was a trustworthy Asparagus and Pancetta (or Angel Bacon as my husband so lovingly refers to it) Pasta with Capers and Caramelized Red Onions.

The munchkin bounced around, flirting and socializing into the wee hours until she finally collapsed into her daddy's arms and declared "night night, ready, please, yeah." Could she be any more spectacularly communicative? So long as you are with translator (i.e. mom and dad) the answer here is no. She continues to astound me with her clear concept of the things she wants and needs and how she believes they should be executed. I took her upstairs, jammy-ed her, and read the two new requisite dinosaur books with which we begin and end every day religiously. Upon completion, I turned out the light, she snuggled into my chest, and dozed until I placed her in her crib and she fell asleep within five minutes. She has subsequently been sleeping like a sloth on Ambien and I'm praying the trend lasts until at least 8 a.m. tomorrow.

Upon putting her to bed, I was able to relax and enjoy the company of my friends and fabulous husband but strangely enough, I find that the minute she's out of the room, I miss her terribly. Despite wishing for a break all day long, a home without Haley is scarcely a home at all. When I walk into my once stylish and meticulously tidy living room I remind myself of such revelations as I wouldn't trade a messy, dinosaur infested, Lego strewn home for a spotless house with designer furniture and decorum in a million years. This mess is ours and I wouldn't have it any other way.

Enter....Gummi Bear!

Yes, it's official. I am no longer a singular entity but a feeding source for, what at this point looks remarkably like, a gummi bear growing in my uterus. It's the weirdest and most incredible thing that has ever happened to me. And to think, it all started with the illustrious Ala Moana Hotel Oktoberfest, home of the jolliest mob of wasted octogenarians known to mankind.

The sous chef and I were zipping home from said festivities when I, in my usual show of exceptional judgment, declared myself much too sober. I insisted it was the perfect time for a handle of vodka while simultaneously commenting on the unusual soreness of my generally non-descript chest hams. We unanimously decided it was the perfect combination: Booze and a pregnancy test and onward we jouneyed to the one stop booze-pregnancy shop that is Safeway Hawaii Kai.

Upon arriving home, the sous chef began mixing some libations as I worked on my aim - peeing on a little stick while trying not to laugh at the absurdity of it all. Having diligently done my homework, I knew that the results could take up to 5 minutes to appear. I set Mr. Clear Blue Easy aside and planned on waiting for 5 only to see in that very instant, a bright blue plus sign appear, staring at me, mocking my disbelief. As the sous chef popped in to check on the progress, drinks in hand, I implored him to read the instructions, results, and confirm what I just could not seem to get my fuzzy little brain around. In a moment of sensitivity and tremendous emotional support, he looked deep into my eyes, jaw agape, and said "HOLY SHIT! I think you're pregnant!" This, little Gummi Bear, is how we came to meet you for the first time, and as you will learn through the years, is without a doubt, quintessentially us.

Irony: a dirty bitch with a sick sense of humor

I fear I may have jinxed myself by claiming immunity to severe hypoglycemia with my revised tool belt of medical technology. Yesterday I found myself, once again, being whisked off to the hospital in a truck (read: ambulance) full of hot, young men (read: paramedics).

Having excessive faith in the abilities of my new sensor I thought it perfectly reasonable to take some post-lunch insulin without consulting the wisdom of my meter. In case you were wondering, this was the wrong choice. I started to feel a little lightheaded shortly after taking the insulin, so I pulled into a Blockbuster to grab a Sierra Mist (hypoglycemia treatment of choice). No sooner had I opened the soda and begun enjoying the sumptious beverage did I find myself surrounded by strangers, laying on the floor of everyone's favorite video store, wondering what in the hell the commotion was about. Moreover, why these people kept asking me if I knew what day it was, like I was taking part in some bizarre current events game show. Apparently, if I could prove a cursory knowledge of the days of the week I wouldn't have to go to the hospital, something I was fighting with every ounce of strength I possessed. (Which, granted, wasn't much at this point.) The quiz show moderator (read: EMT) started things off with a trick question: "Do you know what day it is?"

"OF COURSE, I KNOW WHAT DAY IT IS! it's...it's...ummm...uhhhh...that was a tough question, let's try a different one..."

"What month is it?"

"Well, that's easy...it's....well...I think it's....FINE! I'LL GO TO THE HOSPITAL!"

When I finally started coming around, I inquired about the time. Upon someone mentioning 3 o'clock I began cursing at the top of my voice, filling the little mobile medical haven with enough profanity to make Richard Pryor blush.

"I HAVE AN INTERVIEW RIGHT NOW!!!!!"

"I'm so sorry, I don't think you'll be making it today ma'am," the kindly paramedic said to me as he snapped a neck brace around me and restrained my wrists in case another seizure (or just hysteria) should overtake me.

Needless to say, everyone made it out of there in one piece. I am a little worse for the wear but I do feel like more of a bad ass, looking like I went a few rounds with the champ. (You should see the other guy!) And really, what's a Wednesday without a tetanus shot from a 20-year-old-terrified-nurse-in-training lancing you in the arm with a jousting rod?

I'm always riddled with a good salty dash of guilt after one of these episodes, like I'm causing my family pain by not being in perfect control at all times but they are the picture of loving support and I am beyond blessed by this. Now if I could only figure out how to get hot, young men to pick me up in their trucks without the whole seizure thing...

Ladies and gentlemen, your moment of zen: