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?

I forget he's just a little boy with little boy fears when we visit my friend and his three very large Rhodesian Ridgebacks - Lulu, Tembi and Shombay. Beautiful, loving dogs that absolutely terrify Charlie.

When Charlie runs from them in a panic - the worst thing to do - I realize later that I'm not nearly as sensitive as I should have been.

"Charlie! Charlie!" I laugh. "Stop running! They just want to kiss you!"

"You deal with diabetes every day!" I want to yell out. I don't of course. I'm not that much of a monster and plus, it's just a ridiculous thing to say. Yet a hint of that feeling is there.

Guess I should be more sensitive going forward. Maybe I'll start by no longer sending Charlie downstairs with a baseball bat every time we hear a strange noise coming from the basement in the middle of the night.

"No, it's fine, honey," I reassure my wife.

"He has diabetes."