I hate numbers. I hate math. I've never been any good at it, and until recently I would have been right there with every high school age kid that claims, "I'm never gonna need this." But, like many things in the past year, life has proven me wrong. I am surrounded by numbers:
66 - The number of grams of whipping cream needed in Easton's hot dog meal.
25-50 - The number of seizures my son has in one hour at any given point during the day.
5 - The number of times a day that I spend weighing food.
3 - The average number of medically related phone calls I make on a daily basis.
2 - The number of times I measure my son's urine for ketone concentration.
1 - The number of therapy sessions Easton has each day.
100 - The number of times a day that I feel guilty about not working on specific therapy needs.
And the number of times I am on the verge of tears due to frustration, fear, or emotional pain varies.
However, today I'm not interested in any of those numbers. I logged those numbers for future reference. I kept track of everything that I usually monitor throughout the day. But, today they don't matter as much as the number six. Because six is the number of times I heard my baby belly-laughing from the kitchen window. He was outside with his brother and sisters, playing in a tent. No therapy. No medication. No seizures. Just laughter. Just playing. Just being a little boy. I may not be a mathematician anytime soon, but tonight I have a new appreciation for numbers.