My Child Has Diabetes: E-book for parents of children with Juvenile Diabetes

Kari will turn 12 years old the second day of next month. 11 is pretty much toast. Her sister Kristin will turn 10 on the same day. Let's see, 2 + 2 = 4 carry the 6 multiply by 3 and you can see that 9 is toast as well.

It says in the little girl handbook that they gave me on the day they were born, what, you didn't get a handbook? You probably just need better insurance. Anyway, it clearly states in the handbook that I have until they are at least 13 years old before several things happen.

The first is I'm supposed to have until at least 13 before my girls become smarter than me. They don't get to be moody yet, and they're supposed to wait at least one more year before putting on Oscar winning performances. I'm also supposed to get some more time before their skulls fuse and become solid bone from ear to ear. I'm promised some more time before I go from being King Daddy, the all knowing, all seeing, all fixing, to this hulking dullard that they are forced to share the house with. And according to the handbook, I'm not supposed to have to deal with shaving, breasts, boys, make-up or periods yet!

Obviously, my girls did not read the handbook. There is a rule in our house; nobody's belly is allowed to show from underneath our shirts. (Mine included) We have a very simple test. Each morning as they walk down the hallway towards the kitchen, they raise their hands up over their heads. If I see belly don't even try to make it to the kitchen. You would not believe how many times I have sent one or both back whining and moaning the whole way like this was some sort of surprise or something.

Everything we do these days seems like it's out of a play by Shakespeare. I'm talking about high drama. The other day I found a couple of gift certificates from Christmas that they hadn't used yet. I thought it would be a nice after school treat to take them shopping. HAH. What was I thinking? I pick them up from school, they get in the car and this is what I hear. "Shut up. No, you shut up. No, Yoou shut up!" This isn't the happy family outing I had imagined. My heart-rate goes from a happy 80 beats per minute to about 600 in seconds. Kristin looks over at me and says "daddy, you should get that vein in your forehead looked at."

We arrive at Wal-Mart each girl looking forward to spending $25.00. Each girl is soon in her own end of the store, one looking at clothing the other costume jewelry. I'm sort of set up between them so I have them both in site for the most part. All of a sudden the one in Clothes starts yelling for me to come quick. I go tearing through the pants and shirts and sweaters to find my daughter impatiently waiting for me in front of a bra display. After all of the shouting to get me there she starts to whisper about a specific bra she can't reach. Now because she's whispering all of a sudden I'm not allowed to talk out loud. "Shhh daddy, someone will hear you". Hear me what? Point? I silently reach up and get the proper bra and off we go to find my other daughter. As we approach I can tell by the look on her face she's mad about something. I don't even want to go over there. I'm wondering if I can sneak out and leave her there. I never did find out what she was mad at. I didn't ask. It got transferred to me and her sister anyway. We get back in the car with both girls deep in a serious discussion. "Shut up. No. you shut up. No Yoou shut up!

Kari's A1C has been lousy for the last two visits to her endo. That's 6 months of less than hoped for control. Her doctor has decided we need to be more aggressive with her insulin. Why? BECAUSE OF PUBERTY. Nuh Uh, she's only 11, according to the handbook I have two more years. One of the things we are doing to try to maintain better control is to chart her blood sugar numbers more closely. Every three days. When I ask Kari to copy the numbers for the last three days from her meter You'd think the world as she knew it had ended. Crying and confusion, I can't read the meter, the sun's in my eye, there's a pebble in my shoe, boo-hoo-hoo. I was floored. I've done this for her dozens of times. It takes longer to chew and swallow a spoonful of cereal than it does to right down the information we needed. She just melted down, it didn't get done, and she's off to school still sniffling.

I'm at a loss. Fortunately my maturity kicked in. I start banging my head against the wall, stomp my feet and decide I'm not going to do it so there. We come home from school. The first thing I did was hand her the little notebook. She quietly takes it gets herself some cookies and milk and proceeds to write everything down in about 6 seconds. I look at her, I'm speechless. My body is pulling me toward that familiar spot on the wall where I bang my head. Kari, completely unaware of the turmoil boiling up inside of me says brightly "daddy, I think I found the secret to writing down my numbers, cookies"! How could I have been so stupid? Problem solved. I can't find that part in the handbook.

Wishing for more time,

Rusty

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