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Just this morning …

Charlie says, "Dad, I think I'm low."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"OK, one sec."

Rip. Pop. Click.

"Nope. Not low."

"Aww. I wish I was low."

"What? No Charlie. Being low is very dangerous. Why do you want to be low?"

"Because I want to eat some juice."

"You mean drink juice?"

"Drink juice."

"Charlie, it's really, really dangerous."

"Could I die?"

I don't particularly like my 6-year-old son asking me if he could die from something that he really could die from. I wanted to take pass on the question and move on to Greek mythology for $200 but I wasn't given that option. I hoped for distraction in the form of a ceiling spider, a whining fire truck or a meteor shower. But there he was, waiting for an answer. I answered gracefully.

"Well, you … umm … there's uh … uh … lows can be … no. No. We wouldn't let that happen."

With that settled, Charlie dismounted off the bedrail and said, "Come on dad, let's go vote," and then worked my malleable 2-year-old into a frenzied chant of "O – BA – MA! O – BA – MA! "

Charlie left the voting booth slightly let down. I think he envisioned a bit more fanfare from the voting process than just pressing a button. Maybe a Hillary Tilt-A-Whirl, a Barack moon bounce or a Ron Paul house of mirrors.

But thankfully his thoughts change as quickly as his blood sugars do. Coming back from the library, our conversation turned to lighter subject matter.

"Dad?"

"Yeah, Charlie."

"I wish I could see what your tushy looks like."