Phew! Thank goodness it’s over. It was just a really stressful day. It would have been tolerable if Charlie was just hanging out with me at my desk all day, but that’s not how they do it in my office. The kids are all whisked away for a day of activities and my only time with my kids (in theory) would be for lunch.

But there was breakfast to deal with, a morning snack, an afternoon snack, late-afternoon ice pops, about five false-alarm lows and one legitimate low of 51. I saw quite a bit of Charlie, did very little work and by the end of the day, I’m sure the volunteers were relieved to see me taking him off their hands.

By the fifth phone call from the volunteers, I was starting to wonder if Charlie was simply getting a sick pleasure out of seeing me run repeatedly up the stairs and through the office clutching his puffy rocket ship diabetes bag.

By the end of the day, we even had the first floor security guard talking the talk.

"Hi. I have Charlie here in the lobby and he says he feels low."

When lunch rolled around, they had an impressive spread for the kids. While most parents and their children appeared giddy for the feast, I looked like I was face-to-face with the smoke monster from the television show Lost.

When treating lows, I feel like I’m always trying to get him "back in the game." Back on the ice. Back on the field. Back to the party. I’m his pit crew trying desperately to get him back out there as fast as possible so that he doesn’t fall too far behind. I don’t want him to miss anything because of this stupid disease.

When he was 51, the other kids were outside learning about gardening and sorting through dirt for earthworms. (Nothing remotely relevant to my job).

"Don’t worry, Charlie. I’ll get you back out there soon. Here, drink this."

And sometimes it's just me doing the worrying.

"It’s OK," he said.

'It’s funner hanging out here with you."