"What is that?"
Her little face breaks my heart on a regular basis. She is funny and warm, always dancing and singing, and she is free with her hugs. Her pretty face breaks out in a smile when she sees her Uncle Chris. She's just recently started calling me "Auntie Kerri" and every time she does, my whole soul smiles.
"That's my medicine."
She's just five years old, Chris's niece MP. Her eyebrows furrow and she pokes at the white gauzy infusion set with her finger tip as it peeks out from under the hem of my shorts.
"Yes. You know when I use that little machine for my fingers?"
"That's my medicine. This is part of my medicine, too." I pull the insulin pump from out of my pocket and show it to her. "You've seen this before, right? My medicine is in here and it goes into my body through that looo-ooong tube."
I'm never quite sure what to say when they're that small. I don't want to overwhelm her with a bunch of medical jargon, and I don't want her to think of me as "sick." She's only five. I think about Emma. And Charlie. I think of my own self, as a little kid, living with diabetes. I wonder if I ever looked that small.
"Uncle B has that little machine, too. But he doesn't have that." She gestures towards the infusion set again. "He takes shots."
"Right. I use this instead of shots. It's a different way to take the same medicine."
She's so little but she's so wise. Pats my hand as she's thinking, looking at the tubing snaking up from my thigh and hidden in the folds of my clothes. The rest of the room is strangely quiet.
"Okay. Hey, let's go play in the parlor?"
Now it's part of her normal, too.