Unfortunately, though, I'd recently been told by my regular doctor that I'd have to be evenmore careful with my diet and with taking just the right amount of insulin. I guess my body is going through some changes right now that make it hard for everything to stay in balance.

So there I was, about to take another bite of my noodles. Ido know that they're okay for me to eat, of course; otherwise I'd never have ordered them. Who wants to get sick? Then my dad spoke up again.

"I think you should schedule an appointment with Dr. Werner for the next time you visit me."

Dr. Werner is my diabetes specialist. I don't have to see her regularly — just when there's a special problem.

I hate it when my parents start worrying about my diabetes. I don't feel sick all the time, and I can't stand being treated like an invalid. To tell you the truth, it scares me a little when they make a federal case out of my diabetes. It reminds me that I do have a serious illness.

"Dad, it's under control. Come on! Don't you think I know how to take care of myself? I'm a big girl now, remember? I'm not your little boontsie anymore." ("Boontsie" is what my dad calls kids who are at that really cute big-tummy, bowlegged stage, around two or three.)

He softened. I could tell I'd put off having to see Dr. Werner for awhile, anyway.

"No, you're not my little boontsie anymore, are you, Anastasia?"

He's the only one who gets away with calling me that. I know, it is my real name, but really. Anastasia?

So that was my big weekend in New York. On Sunday I woke up late in my dad's apartment. I could hear him clicking away at his computer keyboard in the room next to mine. I should have known he couldn't stand to take thewhole weekend off. I started to get a little mad at him — after all, itwas Sunday — but just then the doorbell rang.