My diabetes. I know she understands that I am different. The noises from my insulin pump and my Dexcom have been lullabies (not harmonious and soothing) since her birth. As she grew, tiny fingers would fiddle against the tubing. For a time, she would not sleep until she pushed the button to light up the Dexcom display and had me read the number to her. It became a bedtime ritual.
Glucose tabs are used for counting lessons now, but the tubes I carried were once rattles. Juice is shared, but she no longer cries when I suck the box dry. We take our vitamins together, but she will only eat the red gummies, so I get stuck with the orange.
I think that she understands how hard I try to not let diabetes be in control of me.
And then I overhear her playing in the other room by herself. The stuffed animals are being told that they are sick. They must go to the doctor. They must feel better. They must not lie down on the couch.
That is where I go when I’m low and need a minute to recoup when we are home. I think back to passing comments she makes as I wait the 15 minutes between checks: “Mommy, are you OK?” “Do you need medicine?” “Rest is best.” “It will be O.K., Mommy.”
She thinks I am sick.
I want her to see that my diabetes, while constant like the stars, is only a small part of who I am.
But this morning, in her beautiful blue eyes, it is all she sees.