By watching my wife's body language while she tests Charlie's blood sugar, I can get a good idea of what the number is before she tells me. A peppy vertical nod of her head generally means he's in range. No reaction whatsoever might indicate a number just out of range or in the low- to mid-200s. A quick shake of the head in anger is likely a number in the 300s.

Tight lips as if holding back the most foul word imaginable, eyes to the ceiling and a sharp gasp could mean only one thing. He had to be over 400.

Charlie was 480 before he went to bed last night. That would explain his complaints of stomach pain.

I hate this! I hate this! I hate this! I hate this! I hate this! I hate this! I mother-scratchin' hate this!

Sorry for the temper tantrum, but I just hate this! We can't go on like this. The thing that infuriates me the most is that I think a majority of these highs are a result of technical difficulties. Not the food he eats or a virus brewing or a growth spurt, but instead, the inability to effectively get insulin into Charlie's body.

Bad sites. Blood in tubing. Scar tissue affecting absorption of insulin. Technical difficulties. It happens way too often. How can we manage this damn disease if we can't even properly give him his medicine? We don't even have a fighting chance.

Charlie will not handle this well at all and we will see alligator wrestling like we've never seen before, but we must leave his butt for greener pastures. It's become a mucked up battlefield with too many explosives under the surface. It's time to try sites somewhere else. I suppose his belly. I will gladly accept any feedback on belly sites. Do you use one of those inserter doohickeys? Do they work well?

Ben and Charlie share a room. It was bedtime and I was lying with Ben, helping him fall asleep. Soon Ben drifted off. I could hear Susanne and Maeve downstairs, where I would soon join them, criticizing a contestant on American Idol. I looked over at Charlie. His eyelids were fluttering and he was squirming around trying to get comfortable. 

I put my hand on Charlie's head and told him that I loved him and that we would play something fun when I got home from work the next day.

"I love you too," he mumbled. "Only if my tummy feels better."

I hate this! I hate this! I hate this!