Ben lowered his head and was right on my heels in the dark as we took cover behind a neon-outlined wall near the yellow base. He looked terrified.  I peered around the corner and pointed directions to him with two fingers like they do in combat films. "Stay down," I mouthed. "I'm going out there."

 A 6-year-old girl was approaching slowly - crouching low and walking sideways with her gun raised steady above her shoulders. She was using "alpha, bravo, Charlie" phonetics and switching from English to French and this frightened me.  She was trouble.

In the near pitch-black labyrinth that is laser tag, I had no clue of Charlie's whereabouts. I didn't think of it at the time, but a severe hypoglycemic event would be very bad in this setting; especially it being his birthday party.

When Charlie was younger, we went to a massive multi-level castle playground. It was a maze of tunnels and doors and slides and bridges and hidden rooms. It was enormous. Charlie took off and quickly disappeared into the innards of the castle. I knew we would be screwed if he went low. So I went after him.

Squeezing my large frame through this child-sized hamster habitat while clutching the diabetes bag in hand was a sight to behold I am sure. I had many obstacles and several confrontations. "Listen little girl, this tunnel ain't big enough for the two of us and I've got a kid with diabetes to find."

After laser tag, we took Charlie and about 10 of his best buddies out to a restaurant for lunch.  I don't think we'll be welcomed back to that place any time soon.  After the spit-balling that ensued, I wouldn't be surprised if the restaurant instituted a companywide ban on all straws.  And perhaps a ban on all 9-year-old boys.

Charlie ordered a hamburger with apples on the side instead of fries - fries being a member of the axis of evil.  I often watch in wonderment when Charlie tests his blood sugar in front of his friends. Here he is tightly wedged between two friends and taking a drop of blood from his fingertip and his friends can care less. I know it's because they've grown accustomed to it and because frankly, spitballs are just more interesting, but still it makes me pleased that there is no reaction - that it's not a big deal.  Blood Shmud.

And then this made me smile.

I watched as a boy to Charlie's right slipped a single fat French fry onto Charlie's plate as slick as a prisoner handing his cellmate a shank.

Friends don't let friends not have at least one fry.