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Practice makes near perfect at bedtime

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October 24, 2016
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The Concealed Pretzel

Was it just in my head or was Charlie hiding a large soft pretzel behind his back?


By the time I made it across the lacrosse field, snacks had apparently already been doled out. The boys posed for a team photo as the parents crowded around like paparazzi, snapping photos with their phones. The boys smiled with wads of pretzel dough stuffed in their cheeks.


Charlie, however, was being careful. He didn’t know where I was in the crowd of parents. He chiseled off a piece of salt with his teeth and then swung the pretzel again behind his back like it was a concealed weapon.


I figured he was handed this forbidden fruit and was contemplating in his mind what to do with it. He likely had the devil and the angel in each ear.


Devil: Do it. He’s not even around. He’ll never know. Just stuff it all in your mouth and chew real fast.


Angel: Charles …


Devil: Don’t listen to her. Here’s what you do. Hide the pretzel in your shorts and …


Angel: Ew! He just played lacrosse!


Devil: Can I speak please?!? Hide the pretzel in your shorts and just tell your dad that you have to take a pee over in those woods over there. With your back turned, eat that pretzel!!!


Angel: Charles …


Angel: He’s always watching.


I am a carb Nazi. I admit that. Years of watching helplessly as certain foods ravaged Charlie’s blood sugar has made me what I am.  Hot pretzels happen to be one of those foods. It is a lifelong member of the axis of evil.


My eyes panned the row of sweaty kids eating hot pretzels until I eventually came to Charlie. Like a cat with a mouse in its paws, he showed me his coveted prize and asked “can I?” with his eyes. The salt had been picked clean.


Without hesitation, I nodded yes.


He lit up.


It could have been a mistake. He could have been 400. But even for a carb Nazi like me, sometimes it just feels right.


Sometimes you need faith.


{prick} 79 mg/dL.


And a little bit of luck.

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