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By Deanna Glick
My daughter takes after me in many ways: her smile, her chubby cheeks, her muscular calves, her love of dance, water and animals and talking. And talking. And talking some more.
So many words from such a little person. And though I admit to longing for quiet during some of her social outbursts, I often find her words wiser and much more entertaining than those that come from adult mouths. Her witticisms weave from imaginary and frivolous to melancholy and inquisitive and back again.
Here’s a recent gem:
“Did you know that some people don’t like babies, Mommy? That’s not very nice. Babies are so cute and I love them.”
And another:
“I miss Gramma. It’s sad when people die. But you can still love them.”
And one more:
“Mommy, you have to wear pajama bottoms or else Daddy will see your underwear.”
Despite the near-constant flow of chatter, I recently realized that my daughter and I had never had an actual conversation about diabetes. Sure, there have been tidbits of talk about it here and there; comments about my Mommy's machines, finger pokes or tangled tubing, or the occasional question that requires no more than a brief answer.
A while back my daughter inquired eagerly about whether she’d be getting diabetes and a pump when she grew up. Her tone was the same as that of a kid asking about getting a car and a driver’s license. I told her she probably wouldn’t get diabetes or a pump and that they weren’t things that she should necessarily wish for. I didn’t want to give the impression they were horrible, but I most certainly didn’t want her thinking this was something she was missing out on.
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