in which I come out looking bad

I’ve never liked pancakes much. Oh, they’re not nasty or anything. I spent one memorable February snowed in with a toddler and when the bread ran out I made pancakes for those all-important peanut butter sandwiches. So it’s not that I hate pancakes. They’re too sweet and not filling. I’d rather have whatever goes with the pancakes, the sausage or eggs.

Mr Moth loves pancakes. Especially blueberry ones. Sometimes I buy–have bought, in the days before diabetes–him blueberry pancake mix, so he can make himself some pancakes of a Sunday morning.

Then came diabetes and the black hole of pancakes. Because suddenly, now that I couldn’t have any pancakes, everytime he makes pancakes, I hate him. Loathe. Despise. Resent.

I know this is unreasonable. I’m not angry when he eats ice cream, and I like ice cream. There are other things he has that I shouldn’t, and I’m not angry at him for those things.

(If I find out he had some pecan pie though, his days are numbered. Just saying.)

No, it’s not fair that he can’t have those things because I’m diabetic. You know what else isn’t fair? That I’m diabetic.

Anyhow. He ran out of syrup, and on the topic of purchasing more…well, we had a blow up. Over syrup. Yes we did. It was entirely my fault and I was completely unreasonable. Afterwards I was sorry–but still seething with resentment as black as charcoal and as cold as January on a doorknob. I tried to rise above it. We went to the store to get more syrup. And found sugar-free syrup.

Now I don’t want pancakes. I know I don’t like them. Maybe I could put a little of the syrup on oatmeal…but to be honest, I’m not sure where I put it.