When the new year started, I made a promise to myself that I'd get my butt moving again. 

I had, toward the end of 2009, not been to the gym nearly as often as I'd wanted to and I wasn't eating as well as I should have been.  

So much had changed in my life between summer and the holidays.  I ended a long-term relationship, started seeing someone new, moved into a new house, and thew myself into the job I'd started last January.  It was overwhelming and the routine I'd been in of gym visits four times a week and watchful, healthy eating took a backseat to all of the changes.  

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Sometimes I lose sight of Charlie, the 5-year-old. I see Sir Charles the Brave, a courageous warrior whose calloused fingers have shed blood across many a battlefield. The boy who fears nothing.

Like many of our young children with diabetes, checking blood sugars is just a brief pit stop. It's no big deal. Nary a wince or a whine.

In the few times I've checked my own blood sugar, I didn't show nearly the same nonchalance as Charlie does. I jerk my finger back after the pop of the pricker like I'm pulling it from a fire. I contortion my hand oddly like I'm practicing to throw a knuckle ball. Neighboring fingers spread away from the bloody one like it's contagious. Then I nurse my finger. A couple tender kisses, a tightly compressed tissue and close inspection of the prick mark several minutes later. I'm a grown man. How is it possible that my 5-year-old handles it better than me? (READ MORE)