Sara Heartburn was the name that my father gave me as I was growing up. It would seem that I vacillated on the side of melodrama. It’s a good thing I outgrew this.
Interestingly, I’ve given birth to 3 children who lean way toward HIGH STRUNG. A fact which delights my father to no end.
I really thought that my girls bore the brunt of my melodramatic genes, but I was erroneous. This weekend the boy child went above and beyond even my wildest imagination.
Especially considering that this is the child who speaks in ALL CAPS, at ALL TIMES. Whether he’s at the library or church, he insists on using his outside voice. And yes, his hearing is just fine. As he can decipher the parent’s private conversation when they are whispering far out of normal hearing range. All 3 children possess this gift.
But I can stand 3 inches from their nose and give instructions, to which I can be told later, “I didn’t hear you.” I don’t get that.
Everything with Jensen is larger than life. Everything. I have to accompany him into public restrooms not out of the previous ongoing fear that he would flush his own head, but because of the open sores on his hands from his atopic dermatitis. I have to hover close by to make sure he doesn’t touch anything extra and that he washes thoroughly. This is not a job for the faint of heart. Especially since every single time the child has to have his special moment in a public setting, he sounds like he’s giving birth. Without the benefit of an epidural. It is remarkable how the sound reverberates in a public bathroom stall.
I’ve had many a disapproving glance as I hastily exit the public women’s bathroom with my 7 year old in tow. As he continues chattering his running commentary on the success of his bathroom venture. IN ALL CAPS.
As you know, he’s been dealing with some unusual spots on his little 7 year old body. Most of them a faded distant memory. We are guessing this is due to a possible contamination from our local public pool. As the older sister contracted the same ailment. But a new bump appeared under Jensen’s armpit over the weekend, that made all the other pumps pale in comparison. At first it looked like an angry pimple. But by the time we arrived home and were readying the boy for his nightly soak in the tub, it had festered into a force to be reckoned with. Replete with a good deal of swelling. And its own zip code.
I suppose I didn’t help matters very much when upon seeing the pustule, I exclaimed, “Oh my!” Jensen froze with his arm uplifted while staring into the bathroom mirror. And then the screaming began. Not your ordinary run of the mill screaming. The kind of screaming that peels the paint off of the walls. And causes ears to bleed.
In an effort to coax the child into the bathtub, Fiddledaddy made the grave error of saying something to the affect that we need to wash off the gaping wound or something or another would travel to his heart, blah, blah, blah.
It’s hard to recall. As I’d lost both my hearing and my feeble grip on sanity at this point.
Once the child was dutifully deposited in the tub, his plight reached a fever pitch as he cried out, through heaving sobs and many tears, “I’M GOING TO DIE. THIS IS IT. SAY YOUR GOODBYES NOW.”
I did what any caring compassionate mother would do in a dire situation such as this. I left the room. Leaving Fiddledaddy alone in the bathroom to console his dying son. While I wept tears of inappropriate laughter into my yogurt stained t-shirt.
At some point Fiddledaddy
was able to talk Jensen into applying forcibly applied a hot compress to the offending armpit. Which helped to draw out a good deal of gunk. At this point, Jensen changed his tune and deemed the situation gnarly. Like any good science project gone awry.
On this particular evening Fiddledaddy was suppose to meet up with the boys for some well deserved time away from the insane asylum. Unable to fathom leaving me alone to deal with the carnage and ensuing nervous breakdown of the 7 year old, he opted to text a picture of the ordeal to his friend.
Who the next day commented that a simple “can’t make it” would have sufficed.
Frankly, I think the story warrants a visual aide. I would hate for anyone to think I make this stuff up.
All is on a more even keel today, and the last will and testament of the 7 year old has been rescinded. He is now more than willing to lift up his shirt for show and tell for anyone who asks. And especially for those who don’t ask.