We head off to Yosemite tomorrow, in a repeat of a trip that we took last April when the Fiend was residing on the inside (he got time off for good behavior.) I am a little nervous because the last time we were over there my morning sickness hit like a ton of bricks and there was a snow storm. On the up side, we are staying in a hotel this time, so the April weather will have a slightly harder time getting to us (and I’m not pregnant, so I can’t suddenly get morning sickness. Of course, now that I’ve typed that, I will get food poisoning.) I also didn’t relish the idea of being in a lone little tent surrounded by giant RVs again. That is not camping, that is experiencing the joys of a trailer park but with slightly better scenery. Thus: a hotel.
This is also the anniversary of my diabetes diagnosis–9 years this month. I have a hundred or more little white scars from infusion sets on my stomach to prove it. It seems that I like to mark pivotal bad moments in my life with scars: all my itty-bitty belly scars from diabetes, a nice scar on my ass from getting hit by the car, and the one that looks like someone tried to cut my throat to mark the thyroid cancer. Happy events don’t get their own scars (like getting married or having the Fiend (although I am still astonished I escaped scarring from that.)) Of course, one of my biggest scars (on the inside of my wrist) is merely from a moment of genius during the third grade. I thought it would be really fun to walk up our dirt road from the bus whirling in a circle holding my backpack by its top strap and leaning back against its force. It was really fun. Until I stepped on one of the straps and tripped myself, getting a big bloody scrape on my wrist and a severely bruised ego for my trouble. Ah, the impetuosity of youth.