Except I don’t know how to swim, so that’s a really bad metaphor.

There are so many questions and worries and second-guessing.

Did I give him the right dosage?
What if I gave him the wrong kind of insulin?
Did I inject it all?
I’ve seen what happens if it gets high, but what if his blood sugar gets too low?
What if he crashes?
Is he acting okay, like himself?
What if something happens at school?
How do we manage ______ (fill in the blank/ex: restaurants)?
What if… ?

Yesterday was Jedi’s first day back to school since the diagnosis. It was a day of wondering and worry, on my end. His school nurse called after lunch to inform me he his number was high. Not over the target range, but only a couple points short. I stressed the remainder of the day. When he came home, and I tested again, he was fine. In fact, he was all smiles and happy, having had a great day.

I know it gets easier in time, but right now this is what our days revolve around. It’s a numbers game. Don’t let it get too low, keep an eye on it if it gets too high. 3 meals a day, regular snacks, carbs, 15g, 30g, glucose readings, injections, balance, schedule schedule schedule.

It’s a lot. It really is. But he’s worth it. He really is.

This is right up our alley. Abby adores clothes. In fact, at a little over 2 years of age, she has very strong opinions on fashion. She’s like a pint-sized Anna Wintour, but twice as temperamental.

I was getting us ready for the excursion, rifling through her overstuffed and crumpled drawer for an outfit suitable to wear. She was right there along with me, and just so happened to be nixing every choice I offered.

At first, I asked if she’d like to wear a lilac and blue striped dress. I know the answer to this question, but I still try because dresses are easy. It doesn’t matter how much I plead, though, she responds with a firm no.

I handed her pink pants, purple pants, a jean skort. She turned her nose at them all, brushed aside as if to say you’re kidding me here, right. Then, out of desperation, I suggested a full sea mist green skirt, accentuated with a petite bow on it’s side. “Yes!”, she agreed brightly.

That was just the start of it, however, because we still had to settle on a top.

All the while, J is eavesdropping and laughing at our conversation. When he finally speaks up to say, “I can’t believe you’re arguing with a 2 year old over what to wear.”

I can’t believe she already has a better sense of style than I do.

Looking for an answer that morning, I did what someone should never, ever do, under any circumstances.

Ever.

I Googled “spider bite”.

This was before 8 a.m., mind you. If I had eaten breakfast yet, I may have lost it. The huge, gaping wounds and rotting flesh and venom-filled limbs in need of amputation I subjected myself to. Spiders, spiders everywhere. Hundreds and hundreds of them. If I didn’t have a phobia before, I do now.

I couldn’t turn away.

Horrible, no good, very bad, nightmares.

That was my perspective. It could have been worse. I still have my foot. My son may have to take medicine, but he should still live a long and healthy life. Our car is still in pieces in our driveway, but it’s fixable with a lot of work. In the meantime, a wonderful friend let us borrow their vehicle until ours is working again. Last week sucked, for sure, but all things considered, it could have been worse.

For their late afternoon nosh attack, all the kids were given bowls of popcorn while watching a movie. When I walked in to check on them, Jedi was discussing and explaining their simple feast with Abby.

“I told her that popcorn is like macaroni n’ cheese, but you eat it with your hands. And there’s no cheese”, he said, as if he had been really thinking about this perfect analogy.

“Oh, macaroni n’ cheese is like popcorn?”, I asked, confused. Maybe I don’t think like him enough, because it just doesn’t seem the same to me.

“Yeah, but there aren’t any noodles, either”, he quipped.

So macaroni n’ cheese is apparently just like popcorn, but without the cheese and noodles and you have to eat it with a fork. Amused, I replied, “They really aren’t anything alike then, are they?”.

“Yeah”, he agreed between bites. “But they kinda are.”

And that is why I am so happy he’s home.

I gave him a huge hug when he walked in, I could have done a dance. He’s back to his regular self. He looks like himself, he talks like himself, he was running and jumping around and yelling at his siblings, and he couldn’t wait to play games on his computer. Just like normal.

He was also back in his clothes, after being forced to reside in regulation hospital attire. The first night, during one of the rare instances we left him by himself for a few minutes, the nurses had changed him into their version of easy to slip on and off pajamas. With that, they also removed his underwear to make bathroom visits simpler. Except the boy isn’t used to going commando.

We were sitting together, commenting on the past few days with small talk. I told him how happy I was he was home. How much I’ve missed him, which is a lot. How great it was to see him like himself again.

“Isn’t it great to be back in your own clothes?”, I asked.

“Yeah”, he agreed, happily. Then, as if a lightbulb ignited, he remarked excitedly, “I even have my underwear back on!”

I couldn’t help but smile. “Well that’s a good thing, huh?”

It’s amazing what makes us feel like ourselves. I’m just so happy he’s home. And everything’s getting back to our new version of normal. Even his underwear.