It's Okay.

It's not unusual for children to ask Brandan about the pump pack he wears. They always want to know what's inside it. I have witnessed many entertaining exchanges of words while he tries to explain.

He named his insulin pump Spider-Man. Because it's blue like Spider-Man. Because at the tender age of 3, when it was time to pick a color for his new method of insulin delivery, he associated all colors with superheros.

Imagine, if you will, a four-year-old showing another four-year-old a medical device and calling it his Spider-Man. They called each other silly a few times until I stepped in with some child friendly technical lingo.

Yesterday, I watched from afar as a little girl at the playground asked him what's inside the pocket on his belly. I heard him tell her it's a pump. I heard her ask to see it. But the big reveal must have taken place behind the slides. I missed it.

When I saw the tube twisted around the belt and sticking out of the pack it made me smile. I left it alone until he got undressed for his bath. I commented about his crazy tube (a term we use often). He told me he showed his pump to his friend at the playground. I replied by telling him that most kids don't know what insulin pumps are. He said, so matter-of-factly, so wise beyond his age, "I know."

My insides scrambled with those two little words because of how he said them. He knows what other kids don't. He knows because he has to. He knows and it's not a big deal. He knows that it's different for him and it's OK. He knows. It's no big deal. He's OK. Just like that, I see how he sees it. Just like that, I see that he understands. And just like that, I'm actually OK, too.