Diabetes occupies a full-time space in my head with a steady stream of voices. It is loud and omnipresent.

The voices question me: "I wonder if his blood sugar is OK?"

The voices remind me: "It's time to check his blood sugar."

The voices fool me: "His blood sugar should be OK."

The voices intrude on a blissful moment alone with just the baby; Lying on our backs in the yard and staring up at the sky with a comfortable breeze lifting our shirts and tickling our bellies.

I point out everything around us as Ben does his best to repeat the words. He often leaves off the first few consonants.

"Trees," I say, pointing straight upward.

"Eeeeez."

"Sky," I say.

"Eye."

"Grass" gives him some trouble as well.

We lie on the soft ass and look dreamily at the urds soaring over our eds. Ben pulls out the ass and makes a heaping pile of ass pie. He then sprinkles the ass all over my hair. Soon we're laughing and throwing lots of ass at each other. We lie back down on the soft ass, look at the ite owds in the eye and the voices come back, swirling around in my brain until making it to my lips.

"Ok, Ben, let's go inside. I should check Charlie."

Even Ben at 2 recognizes the inconvenience and rudeness of diabetes.

Ben crawls on top of me, lowering his face so close to mine that our noses and mouths are touching, and whispers, "no addy, no addy," a small piece of ass still stuck to his chin.