Tags

I'm sitting at the computer paying bills when Joseph walks in the room.

"Mom, do we have any more dog tags?"

"I'm not sure-- why?"

"Well, I need a new one," he responds quietly.

I stop what I'm doing, turn away from the laptop screen, and look up at my son's face.

He's trying to look casual-- and failing miserably.

"What's goin' on, Bud?"

"This one is all bent," he says, holding out a silver dog tag attached to the chain hanging from his neck.

I lean over and immediately see that the metal tag is misshapen-- two large ripples now run across its surface.

"How did this happen?" I ask, a little shocked.

"Well, I was standing outside music with the rest of my class, and this kid -- L -- starts singing real loud so I tell him -- 'Be quiet-- you're makin' too much noise' -- mom, he really sounded bad, and it was annoying."

I've seen L before-- he's a big kid-- much bigger than Joseph.

"Okay, so then what happened?"

Joseph turns his head away for maybe a second or two-- still holding his dog tag between the thumb and fingers of his left hand.

When he starts talking again, it all comes out in a rush:

"He walked up to me and grabbed my dog tag, and started saying-- 'Hey, what's this, huh? Looks like plastic to me,' and then he just stood there lookin' at me, holding my dog tag in his hand, and then he squeezed it in his fist really hard . . . I don't know why he had to do that. "

"Honey, did you tell him what the dog tag means-- that it's your medical ID?"

"NO. It was just so STUPID!"

And now Joseph is fighting to keep from crying.

And I'm furious. Who is this boy? And what the hell is he doing with my son's medical ID?

I want to smack him.

Hard.

It takes me a few seconds to calm down, and a few more to calm Joseph.

"Bud, I'm thinkin' it's time for us to have a talk about diabetes with your class . . .

And for me to have a talk with his teacher about this kid, L.

. . . you know, to make sure everyone understands what that tag means. How do you feel about that?"

"Yeah. I think that's a good idea. They need to know," he says, slowly nodding his head.

I look at him for a moment-- a little surprised.

You see, when school started, (as was the case last year) he'd dragged his heels about doing a talk-- wanting instead to wait until he got to know his classmates a little better.

Until they to got to know him better.

Now, Joseph does check his blood sugar in the classroom, and is not at all shy about letting people know when he's feeling low-- so his classmates aren't completely in the dark here.

But still, he's the only one -- in a school of several hundred kids -- who has diabetes.

I'm sure he felt that our talk -- especially given too soon -- might cause his peers to see him first as "that kid with diabetes."

A valid fear, I think.

But since he doesn't see himself that way, it's hard to imagine my son letting anyone else, either.