Dear 42

Dear 42,

Hey.  W'sup.  When you showed up on our doorstep last week I have to admit I was taken back a bit.    I am sure we hadn't exchanged any kind of correspondence regarding a visit.  In fact, when I first saw your face I wasn't entirely sure who you were.   You looked very familiar...I just couldn't place when or where our paths had crossed before.  Since then I have come to terms with the fact that I probably blocked out our last meeting to save my sanity.  My swelly brain freely stores information, but sometimes it must dump the unpleasant to survive.  You're previous visits, I'm sure...we're duly dumped.  Well anyway, since you showed up last week, I can't get you off my mind.  So I am writing you this letter to clear the air.

Let me begin by saying, I'm really a nice person.  Seriously, people like me...and even more than that...I like people!  I don't generally judge anyone as a rule. I am polite, and pleasant, and courteous.  Sure, I'm a little sassy too, but when I speak to those that are all but strangers to me, I hold it as a general rule not to "call them out" as it were.

But in this case, I must make an exception.  In fact, your visit has been on my mind so much, this letter is an absolute necessity.

All of the above written as a caveat so I can say what I really want to say.  And that is this: 

You suck. 

If you ever show your face around here again, I will juice you.

Try one more time to touch one ounce of blood in my boy's body and you will wish you were a 330 eradicated by insulin.

I have glucagon, and I swear I am not afraid to use it.

Crawl back into your cave of hypoglycemic woe and live a long miserable life alone like the vermin you are.

Do not try to be our friend.

Do not call.  Do not write.  And with all the trueness and genuineness in my heart I say:  Wanna stop by?  OH HELL NO!

Call me an anti-low-ite if you must, but your kind is not welcome here.

I am your worst nightmare.  I am a D-Mom.   And I will win any confrontation you begin.  I will rise my son out of the ashes of misery created by your fire.  Together we will turn you into a completely different figure altogether.  A figure so far off than yourself, you won't even recognize who you are in just 10 minutes time.

You will be shamed by the other low numbers.  You will bring no honor to your 42.

So beat it.

Scram.

Go on.  GET OUTTA HERE!

Find a bowling alley to cause misery.

Or a highway somewhere in Iowa.

Tack yourself on the end of our already sky high gas prices for all I care.

Just don't come here, into my son's day.

Ever.

You think you're scary? You don't want to meet me alone at the bedside late at night. If you were to find me there, you would find out the real definition of scary. That's all I'm sayin'.  Sorry to be so harsh, but it is my job to protect my son.  You understand.  Right? 

Sincerely,

P.S. Did you do something new to your hair?  It looks like hell.