Forgot to mention that ,

my daughter's third-grade class put on a lovely Thanksgiving pageant. Maeve was a pilgrim girl.

The classroom was jam-packed as parents and grandparents deployed their digital cameras and squeezed into the tiny chairs. We were running late as usual, but found a circular table that was only half occupied by three people - an 18 year old boy, his mother and his grandmother. The mother waved us over.

"Here. There's room. Sit here."

We thanked her and parked our crazy caravan of kids just in time for the opening number. Alright, two boys may not constitute a caravan, but it's a pretty insane crew nonetheless. Especially when maneuvering in tight quarters.

I'm not a huge fan of PDB (public displays of bloodletting), but we needed to test Charlie and discretion was not really an option. The table was fairly small, so the boy, mother and grandmother had front-row seats for our little procedure. I can really care less if someone sees me testing Charlie's blood sugar, but with them right on top of us, it made me a little uncomfortable.

"We do that," the mother said, as Susanne snapped the pricker against Charlie's forefinger.

"You do?" Susanne and I said in astonishment, almost in unison.

"Yep," she said drearily, pointing to her son who nodded in confirmation.

"For him."

We gave a communal sigh and a shake of the head and asked our newly discovered brethren questions about his diagnosis. We found out that he was 11 and that he had a blood sugar of 320, but that number turned out to be wrong. He was actually only 180.

Wow, I thought. Even the 320 would have been pretty damn good for a diagnosis number. 180 at diagnosis. Remarkable.

"So, are you on the pump?" Susanne asked.

"No," he said. "I take a pill."

A sudden look of clarity washed over our faces. Oh! Oh, oh, oh. I suddenly realized. He takes a pill. Oh! Now I get it. He's, a, type ,

"Two of you! Don't move and you won't get hurt!" I felt the sharp, cold metal of the gun under the table and against my ribcage as the grandmother leaned into me with her warm Halls Mentho-Lyptus breath steaming up my glasses. "Don't make a sound."

"Type 2" I mouthed in horror to Susanne as she clutched the children and held them close to her.

We nervously waited for their demands as the third-grade class broke into song at the front of the classroom.

My turkey 'tis of thee
Sweet land of cranberry
Of thee I sing.
I love the legs and wings
Front back and other things ,.

And then I gave Susanne the signal to which she gave Charlie and Charlie gave to Ben. And in a flash, we flipped the table over, knocking the gun out of the grandmother's hand, and made a dash for the exit, hurdling over gallon jugs of apple cider and platters of turkey-shaped cookies.

"What's happening!" Maeve screamed, fear stricken.

"Type 2s! They're here! In the classroom! Run!" I yelled, out of breath.

"What's happening!" the woman's daughter screamed.

"Type 1s! Don't let them get away!!"

In the chaotic rumpus of flying chairs, flinging mashed potatoes and bullets of cranberry sauce, we managed to slip out the back door, through the cafeteria and into the janitor's closet.

We waited in the darkness for hours until it was safe to come out.

"Dad?"

"Yeah, Charlie."

"I'm tired of always running. When will the fighting end between type 1s and type 2s?"

"I don't know, son. I don't know."