This diabetes stuff is hard. Literally.

Others have written about how the pump is difficult to conceal when dressing formally or how it can create a challenge when it's, uh, well , business time.

The pump, though pretty cool with its life-saving abilities and all, also gets in the way of my own intimate moments with my son. It's a third wheel; an unyielding, rock-solid thorn in my son's backside.

The pump is usually a recipient of hugs intended for Charlie. I reach my arms around Charlie's waist when I leave for work, only to squeeze plastic rather than skin.

Attacks from the tickle monster are curtailed by tubing tangle and harmless roughhousing leaves pump scratches on both of us.

It grinds into my side when I lift Charlie from the couch when he's sleeping and I carry him up the stairs to his bed.

When gliding Charlie up and down through the house like he's an airplane, the pump is a clunky metal engine under Charlie's fuselage, pressing rudely into my forearm and his kidneys.

When Charlie is a pizza with the works and I'm cutting him into slices, one invariably ends up with way too much pump topping.

Diabetes is hard. It hardens Charlie.

I sometimes miss the softness of my son.