Three Years Old

So much has happened since the last time that I posted here.  Some good, some bad.  Emily has turned three, she has actually given herself her shot (Yeah, WOW!!!!  For a while that was so great, but . . . the novelty wore off on that one too, and she's decided that doing her own shot is "too scary"), she has learned how to lie about feeling low -- thinking that it will get her a treat. 

Today I wrote a poem about diabetes.  It is more about my suffering than hers.

Doing the Math 

The sweet sharp smell 
of rubbing alcohol 
no longer evokes 
doctors' offices and hospitals -- 
the little square swabs 
have become as much a part 
of our landscape 
as cheerios and baby wipes. 

Some things I've stopped calculating: 
the shots . . . twice a day times 
a year and more . . . 
the finger-pricks 
that leave the swabs bloodstained 
multiplying til I'm dizzy. 
We've filled as many 
gallon juice jugs 
with your medical-sharps-waste 
to match your three years. 

Other math must still be done daily: 
correction factors . . . 
Insulin-to-carb ratios -- 
I wish I could as easily 
divide your pain 
your disappointment. 
Even the small hurts 
I'd make smaller. 

I prick and you flinch. 
And I want to flinch. 
Let the diabetes win for one day 
as I stop playing pancreas 
so I don't have to be the one 
to do the math 
find the magic number 
balancing your life one meal at a time. 

Needle poised before 
your perfect, round, toddler belly: 
"We're turning your tummy 
into swiss cheese" I joke. 
You laugh and I poke. 
This one didn't hurt -- too much -- 
but still my mind is racing 
doing the math 
dividing 
Divide.