When Charlie says, "I think I'm low," we drop everything and make a dash for the meter. He's right about 85 percent of the time.

It wasn't so long ago that Charlie was too young to articulate this. Those were difficult times. Thankfully he's at an age now where he can alert us and explain when his "tummy feels empty and dry," as he describes it.

But he's also at an age where he'll do whatever it takes to be absolved of the crime.

Charlie is the great manipulator. He'll likely become a very successful car salesman or a powerful mafia boss. He wears you down until you agree to his terms. He also has an answer for everything. Even the most heinous act begins with the word, "well ,"

In his cunning way, he has recently learned how he can work the diabetes angle to his advantage.

Maeve runs inside the house, crying hysterically and rubbing her red hand-imprinted shoulder blade. She's unable to speak, but she points out the attacker like he's in a police lineup.

"Charlie!" I yell. "What did you do?"

"Well ,"

"I think I'm low."

I tear open the alcohol wipe, prick the side of his forefinger and get a juicy bubble of blood. A healthy 118 appears on the screen and I shake my head and scowl at Charlie.

"Time for a snack?" he says, looking to change the mood.

If he's doing this now, what will he be doing when he's 18?

What will I say to the irate father who calls me up screaming because Charlie knocked up his daughter and is crossing the state border with her in a stolen minivan and a pocketful of weed?

"Well ,"

"uh, Mr. Roberts ,"

"He could be low."