What I should’ve done was change into my gym clothes and immediately hop on the bike. But I didn’t. I came down in my flannel PJs, made myself a coffee and a big bowl of frosted mini wheats: already killed 9 points, and switched on my light.
Then I spent a good half hour or more looking at my stats and getting confused. I didn’t see any significant activity last night. But the stats today indicate there was some.
It’s easy for me to become obsessive about numbers. That’s why I don’t do the daily weigh-ins, and why I probably shouldn’t have signed up for analytics. Ah, well, it is what it is. At the end of the day, they’ve been incredibly insightful.
The problem with flannel is that it’s a cat hair magnet. The problem with cats is cat hair. And cat litter. And cat puke. All things I didn’t miss during our three-year, no-pet period.
I wonder what they’ll have me doing today. I’m still on the fence about the potential promotion. According to the current coordinators, I could probably work the same night every week, which means I probably could coordinate my schedule with a PT for Aislyn. But Jaime already has Friday.
The PT is for pelvic floor stimulation, to help her recognize the sensation of having to go to the bathroom. But we’re still not sure she doesn’t already recognize the sensation and is just choosing to go or not when it’s convenient for her.
Both kids are chronically constipated and on a Miralax regimen. They get this problem from me, I’m sad to say. Poor Desmond, when he was a toddler, used to poop softballs, and it caused him so much pain, he’d cry.
Sorry to be so graphic.