We're constantly weighing things. Weighing grams. Weighing negatives. Weighing the lesser of two evils.

On the soccer field at halftime I weigh the effect grapes will have on Charlie when his blood sugar is 260. I weigh this against the sadness he'll have if he's the only kid unable to enjoy a halftime snack. This one's easy though. I'll never ever subject him to exclusion.

But, how many grapes? I don't like that he's 260, but he's running around like a wildebeest for two hours. He should come down. Right? Well, maybe. He may also go up higher with all that adrenaline pumping. He may just stay the same somehow and then plummet later. I can't bolus him and risk a low.

But there's that difficult decision again. The rest of his teammates are reclining on soccer ball pillows and popping grapes like Julius Caesar and I've allotted Charlie a measly three.

"There ya go, Bubba," I say, slowly dropping the grapes in his palm one at a time to create the illusion of several.

His sweaty pink face stares back at me with a "huh?" look on it. The three little grapes look pathetic in his cupped, grass-stained hands.

I'm a greedy pirate captain reluctant to share my gold with my first mate. A mob boss unfairly divvying up the loot to my top henchman.

"Fine! One more, but then scram!"

"OK, five more, but that's it!"

"No! Not the quivering chin! Dammit! Three more, but THAT IS IT!"

The thing that just stabs me in the heart is his sweet little voice that tails off with a lisp.

"Dad, can I please have more grapessssssshhh?"

Without knowing the situation, an onlooker might think my deep struggle and uncertainty over a single grape was peculiar at best. Appropriate perhaps if the question was "can I sleep over Eric's house?"

The kid who blows up fish.