Recently I celebrated a birthday. Lets just say Im not young enough to bother insisting on gifts and big hoo-har, but old enough to think for a few seconds to quickly calculate how old I actually am this year. I slapped together a choccy cake and dug around in one of my plastics drawers crammed with egg slicers and milk frothers and came up with a single candle and a 'Happy Birthday' sign to perch on top of the ganache.
We sang Happy Birthday over that one little pink candle, which took all the kids will power not to blow out, I snuffed it myself, wishing that a cure for Reuben and all people living with type 1, was imminent. I had tears welling up my eyes and an ache in my heart. Im intensely proud of my little family. The cheeky little faces smiling at me, clambering over the kitchen bench and trying to hide the icing on their fingers, which proved beyond all doubt they had already snuck a taste.
Fast forward to the next morning, making a round of warm drinks for the family. Reuben is perched up on the counter, which I often let him do after he fetches the bottle of milk from the fridge, so he can help me count out the coffee, milo and sugar spoons as they get divided into the respective cups.
Im not paying too much attention to him as he reaches for something, and I see him turning and shifting from 'cheek to cheek'. Thats entirely odd. I say to him Whats in your hand, Reubs?
Hes chatting away, like any happy kid playing but what he says strikes me.
Did my baby just say needle. Tester?
What is that Reuben, show Mummy.
Hes still like a dog chasing his tail, trying to reach his left buttocks.
He has the little pink candle in his hand. Partly burnt down from last night. He is trying to administer 'medicine' to himself with this prop.