JUST A LITTLE PIN PRICK...

If there's one fact in my life that is a sure thing, it is this...if we don't read Andy a bedtime story, you can bet your ass he's going to wake up at one point in the middle of the night screaming his fool head off.

Last night he fell asleep in his Mama's arms. Mama was watching the season premiere of "Judging Amy" so I knew she wasn't going to put him to bed.

"You want me to put him to bed," I asked.

"Really?," she says like I've never offered before. "Would you??"

It's no skin off my back. Sure.

So I pick the kid up and he's like a sack of potatoes. Snoring his little baby snore.

I cart him back to his room and I know I should read him a book. He loves "Baby Faces" and "Goodnight Moon". Those are the only two books I ever attempt to read to him because I know he'll stay intrigued with both of them.

But this time...he's OUT.

So I forego the book reading portion of our ritual and just lay him in his crib.

His eyes opened briefly to survey where he was. Then they closed and he was fast asleep.

"Okay," I thought. "He knows he's not in Mama's arms and that he's in the crib. So he's cool."

..................

12:23 a.m.

"WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH"

We let it go for ten minutes. Then Susie goes in there for the butt patting.

She comes back about ten minutes later and he's still crying.

We wait 15 minutes.

My turn.

I go in there and he's obviously uncomfortable. He's squirming and screaming and keeps thrusting his thumb in and out of his mouth. He looked like a baby porn movie.

So I make the SECOND of two cardinal sins. First, I didn't read his books to him.

Second...I picked him up.

According to the method we're using you NEVER take the kid out of the crib. No way, uh uh, no how. They don't care if terrorists are bombing your neighborhood...leave the kid in the crib.

So I pick him up and sit down in the glider in his room and rock him and sing "Rock A Bye Baby".

This soothes him. He quits crying almost immediately, shifts around into what looks to be an extremely uncomfortable position and passes out in my arms.

Ten minutes of rocking and it's time for the kid to go back in the crib.

Not a problem. He goes down.

I quietly leave the room and the crying begins.

At this point ... too bad, kid. Game over, dude.

So we let him cry.

And cry.

And cry.

Now I'm an extremely light sleeper. If one of the neighbors sneezes in their sleep, I'm up the rest of the night. If light sleeping was an Olympic sport, I'd not only win the gold medal, I'd be waving a little American flag around with tears streaming down my face and screaming "USA! USA! US.....snorrrrrrrrre".

So I can't sleep as long as the kid is crying.

His last sob came at 2:35. I know. I documented the historic moment in my head. My kid had just taken a two hour chunk of my sleep away and cried 95% of the time that he did it.

It took me about five minutes to fall back asleep after he was finally asleep.

So I didn't walk this morning. I read yesterday that I'm only expected to exercise 4-6 days a week anyway, and today became one of my days off. The weather's been so beautiful lately that I may walk tonight if I get home in time.

One thing's for sure about tonight...that kid's getting both storybooks read to him. I've learned my lesson.

So I bought my ...I'm not sure what it's called...a glucometer?? The thing that measures my blood sugar. I bought it yesterday finally.

Susie had wanted to see if her insurance would cover it, blah blah blah...so they finally said they would cover it, but they'd reimburse us for it or something. I don't know. I don't pay attention to things like insurance reimbursements. I've got storybooks to read, dammit.

So I go to the pharmacy to buy the thing and hand the girl my prescription.

"Which one do you want?" she asked.

"I don't know," I said. "I'm new at this."

So she graciously comes out from behind the counter after I asked her to do so about six times and helps me.

"This one's our most popular model," she says after closing her eyes, spinning around in several circles and pointing at random.

"Well then I'll take that one," I said.

"What kind of lancets and strips do you want," she asked.

Sheesh. Maybe she didn't understand the whole "I'm new at this" phrase.

I had to ask what they were and what was the difference. She lost her patience with me because I had asked two questions in one breath, so she hastily grabbed some stuff off the shelf and tossed it on the counter.

I'm sorry if my blood sugar is inconveniencing you from flirting with your co-workers, Missy. I guess I really should have known every single thing about every single product you sell in this godforsaken pharmacy before I stepped foot in here.

She rings everything up and apparently the insurance paid for some of the stuff, which was cool I guess. I don't know. I don't care.

I get home and open all my boxes and sit down at the kitchen table, hellbent on learning how to do this.

Naturally, Andy's wanting to entertain us with his latest high-pitched squeal that he learned from one of the other little brats at daycare. Which means my concentration has reached an all-time low.

I have the urge to yell...but after the previous night's episode that found me beating my dog like a bad country-western song...I fought that urge.

It's just the lack of sugar talking...it's just the lack of sugar talking.

Finally, I got through enough paragraphs to where I thought I could give this thing a try.

My biggest fear was poking my finger until it bled. I may be a big guy...but I still don't like needles. I'm not sure if it's the whole AIDS thing or what...but I would just as soon not have sharp objects breaking my skin for the sole intention of losing blood.

The poker turns out to be this thing that looks like a weird ball point pen. You stick the little lancet/needle into the thing, you push the end like a ball point pen, press it to your finger, then hit a button and BAM! Your finger's pricked and bleeding.

Sounded simple.

SOUNDED.

I pricked four fingers a total of seven times before I got the blood to flow. You have to squeeze your finger while keeping it pointing downward and then BAM!

I kept forgetting to either squeeze or point downward or any combo of the two.

And you also have to wait a few seconds and squeeze your finger to get the blood droplets out.

By the time I got finished, I looked like a werewolf who had just changed back to a fat guy in his t-shirt and boxer shorts after a fresh kill. Blood was dripping everywhere.

My blood sugar was 192. Very high. Not off-the-charts high...but high.

The pricking wasn't nearly as bad as I was expecting. I've done my share of pricking but have never been on the receiving end of a good pricking.

Prick prick prick.

I'm just glad my ignorant ass figured it out.

Go me.

I finally did some research on this whole Type II Diabetes thing yesterday.

Did you know it's considered a disability and I am now protected by the Americans with Disabilities Act?

It's true! If I get fired from work for being a slacker, I can just say "HEY DAMMIT...I'VE GOT DIABETES, YOU INSENSITIVE BASTARDS!" and they have to back off and go back to their offices and rehire me because I can sue their asses.

They're stuck with me now.

MUAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAA!!!!

(Uncle Bob rubs his hands together fiendishly)

Also...in order to maybe settle any lingering Message Board discussions...I read that "There is no cure for diabetes."

You can keep it in check with proper diet and exercise and even come off the medication. But it's just like syphillis and Samsonite...once you've got it you're got it for life.

Yes...I know there's a cure for syphillis. It was a joke, you little syphillis sluts!

I also found out that there's such a thing as "Diabetes Etiquette".

For instance...you never refer to someone as a "diabetic".

We are people, dammit!! People first, diabetic second, Christian third, you ... you....you insensitive bastards!!

I found the etiquette ludicrous. Here's what I am ... I'm a fat guy who ate whatever the hell he wanted for almost 40 years. Now I'm paying for it. It's my OWN DAMNED FAULT that I'm diabetic and I refuse to be all sensitive about the shit.

...Now...if I lose a leg or two due to this...you might see a few crocodile tears sliding down my face and me being all weepy sensitive about having to walk everywhere on my hands or some shit.

But for now...hey...I made my bed, now I've gotta stay off the wet spot.

I learned more, but I'll share it with you guys some other time...this entry's gone on long enough and I doubt anyone's still left all the way down here.

Take care kids...another update later today!