* I brought Charlie and my daughter to my soccer game on Sunday. Charlie, super duper shy, kept his cap down over his eyes and gave reluctant high-fives with bouquets of orange leaves rather than hand while I introduced them to the players on my team. A well-concealed smile formed with his chin firmly against his chest when he heard the Brits talking strategy, because to him, they sounded just like Obi-Wan Kenobi in Star Wars. "Anyone have a pump?" one of the players yelled, squeezing a soccer ball. Charlie's eyes widened and his head popped up like a Jack-in-a box as he bit his lower lip with a coy smile and adjusted his shirt to reveal his blue pump.

* A co-worker told me that the worst thing about the pump is that it makes it easy to eat a lot of bad foods because you can just hit a button for insulin. That's something her friend with diabetes does. I can think of a few worse things about the pump.

* I tried inserting a test strip directly into Charlie's finger rather than the meter the other day. That's a new one for me. I guess I was just cutting out the middleman. I have three kids. That's something like 34 fingers all around me in the tight quarters of the kitchen like squirmy octopi. I've got a pricker and I'm dangerous. There's no telling who I might prick next. Be forewarned UPS guy when you extend your hand for me to sign for a package or deli counter chick when you hand me a half a pound of American cheese. Be forewarned.