The deal that says we will do everything in our power to protect our offspring and bring them forth to a healthy, productive adulthood.
I signed up for this deal. I signed up willingly. Eagerly, even. I enjoy being a parent, and hope that my guidance will provide my children with what they need. I try really hard to do justice to the deal. I nursed them, I held them, I scolded them, I advised them.
Things seemed to be going along swimmingly. My kids arrived, composed of good raw material, and I didn't mess them up.
At least not too much.
Then this whole big monkey wrench called diabetes came into the mix.
Now just one second. I don't remember signing up for THIS deal! In THIS deal, I have to watch what my daughter eats like a hawk. She gets pretty snippy about it, too.
In THIS deal, I have to make sure that my teenager isn't falsifying records so that I won't worry about her, because "she can handle it."
In THIS deal, I have to become one of THOSE parents, who needs to make party hosts, coaches, and teachers aware of a condition that makes my gorgeous, intelligent, funny daughter less than perfect. I have to work hard not to wax dramatic by pointing out that it is life-threatening. Even though it IS life threatening.
In THIS deal, I have to let her go deal with it herself, or else she will NEVER be able to do it on her own. If I don't let her make mistakes now, how will she handle life in college? The dating world? The bakery?
In THIS deal, I have to wonder which mistakes she makes are acceptable, and which ones might kill her, and then somehow make her understand the difference, when maybe I am not entirely sure myself.
I am not fond of THIS deal. No siree, Bob.
I am not sure who in the universe thought I would be equipped for THIS deal. I would like to give that committee a piece of my mind.
Because you know what? Even if I deserve THIS deal. My daughter, most certainly does not.
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