Let's see. What's going on.

I have poison ivy. It's driving me insane. I don't think it will go away until at least February 2010. I do wonder how it would affect Charlie's blood sugar if I infected him.

Unlikely to happen though. Susanne has me quarantined in the basement bathroom, resting in a tub filled with hydrocortisone.

"Don't touch daddy!" It can be heard all day - thwarting attempts by the kids to climb me like a mountain or swing from my arms like a helicopter blade or take me hostage in some sort of secret agent operative.

It does have its perks though.

"Carey, can you give Ben a bath?"

"Sure. Let me just roll up my sleeves" [revealing a growth of small pink bumps climbing up my forearm like Clematis].

"Ooh, right. I almost forgot! OK, I'll do it."

However, at 12:30 am, before going to sleep, I broke my restraining order, removing my mandated yellow rubber gloves and made human contact, testing Charlie's blood sugar. I thought about how workman-like it's become. So clinical. So routine. I pull his sweaty, sleeping arm (that often resists) out from under his pillow like I'm digging through a tool box in the dark until I find a finger I want to use; One that doesn't look too rusty and old. "Pop!"

56.

Charlie, with bird's nest hair and sleep creases from his temple to his chin, polishes off the juice box with eyes closed and keeps slurping air until the box begins to bend and pucker.

"OK, Charlie. You're done. There's no more."

I push his head back down on his pillow and slip back into my pool of anti-itch cream and dream of uncontaminated arms.