When I was little, I loved hot dogs. I would eat them on a bun...on a plate...sliced up...whatever. As long as I had some ketchup to dip them in, it was all good. Then one day, my brother and I were over visiting my grandparents house for the day. It was in the summer time and very hot out, so I remember sitting in my grandparents spare bedroom with the shades pulled on the windows to keep the sun out and the lights were off as we watched TV. It was nice and cozy in there...it had a soft...barely walked on feel...to the carpet because, as I said...it was the spare room. As I sat there running my hand across the floor, I could hear my Grandma in the kitchen making us lunch. I smiled as I heard my brother ask her what she was making and she said hot dogs. Before long, she called us both into the kitchen and we sat down at the table to eat. My Grandpa was there pulling the ketchup from the refrigerator and asking us if we would like some milk. My Grandpa had kind eyes....beautiful blue eyes...the kind that had the power to make you feel at home when he looked at you. I miss my Grandpa.
My Grandma set the plate of hot dogs on the table before us and I cringed as I saw that they were burned.....not just a little blackened around the edges or in tiny little spots that I could overlook as I bit into them......but the entire thing was black. My stomach turned as I knew that my Grandma would probably make us eat them anyway...and my mind raced as I tried to come up with an excuse NOT to eat them. I wasn't hungry? I felt sick? I just yesterday was told by the doctor that I am allergic to hot dogs? Nothing seemed like it would work....so I decided to tell her the truth...I didnt want to eat them because they were burned and would be gross. My Grandma wasn't having it....she told me that I had to eat them anyway...despite my Grandpa's best efforts at arguing my point of view for me and offering to make us all peanut butter sandwiches instead. Nope. Hot dogs it was. I ate one.
Well, to make a long story short....I wound up getting sick...all over the soft barely walked on carpet of the spare bedroom...and all over the bathroom floor before I made it to the toilet. My Grandpa held my hair back for me and spoke to me in the kindest most soothing voice...he put a cool cloth on my neck.
It took me about 20 years to eat another hot dog. I hated them after that day at my Grandparents house. The mere thought of them or smell of them made my stomach turn. Eventually I got over it and ate them again....but that memory still sticks in my mind.
There is a diabetes related point to this story...really..there is...just stick with me here. Whenever Emma is low at night while she is sleeping, I always give her fruit snacks. You know, those fun cartoon themed chewy gummy type fruit snacks...Dora or Cars or Scooby Doo. My child is the champion of chewing and eating those things in her sleep....she never wakes up...she never has any memory of eating them the following morning. One day she asked me if she had been low the night prior because when she woke up...she had tasted something like fruit snacks in her mouth. She had been low...and my husband had in fact given her some fruit snacks while she slept.
It made me think of my hot dog story. I wonder if when Emma is older, will she hate fruit snacks? Will the mere thought of them or sight of them cause her stomach to turn? Will they cause her to remember all of the lows as a child and will she then associate them with bad feelings? I wonder if one day she will think about fruit snacks and let out a huge sigh as she realizes why she does not like them. Our memories are so intertwined with things and sights and smells and sounds....I find it very interesting. I hope that if Emma does wind up hating fruit snacks one day, that she will still chuckle a bit at how she deserved a gold medal for her abilities in sleep eating.