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So tomorrow we bring Charlie into the shop for his quarterly visit and let them take a look under the hood. Hopefully they'll hear that strange noise he's been making and figure out why he's been leaking so much and more importantly, why he never seems to run out of gas.

In preparation for our meeting, I've been jotting down some questions for Charlie's doctor that I will forget to bring with me and completely forget to ask. I'll remember that I forgot to ask the questions as I'm on the Pennsylvania Turnpike, driving home after the appointment. Because that's what I do.

Charlie has had diabetes for four years and four months. We've spent four long, difficult years trying to get his A1c below 8. We've never been able to do it. It's been just a tad frustrating. In this time, I've come across several parents of children with diabetes who have managed to have consistent A1c results in the 7s. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't envious.

After his most recent bloodwork, I called for the results with much optimism that this was going to be the day that he eclipsed 8. I anxiously waited on hold while the technician looked over the paperwork to locate the A1c result. I waited, tapping my pen and scribbling 7.[blank] and 8.[blank] on a napkin, hoping that I'd be filling in the first one.

"Great. Thanks very much," I said, crossing out the 7. and filling in the number, making it 8.0. Our best ever, but still not what I wanted.

I would have been ecstatic with a 7.9. I know that in the big picture of Charlie's health, a tenth of a point probably doesn't mean that much, but I don't care. I'm a little mental over the whole thing, I admit. I just want a 7 something. I just want to see it. It's been such a long time. We've worked so hard.

I want to see it on paper and written in the sky. I want to say it out loud and email it to myself.

And when the nurse says it with the emotion of a toll booth operator tomorrow morning, you can bet I'll be watching like a sniper for the "ssssssssssssssss" of "seven" leaving her lips.