Ms. Diva’s has developed a rare hearing disorder. All of sudden, she can only process communications which contain the words Ice Cream, Lip Gloss, or Hannah Montana. This impairment has forced to me to start communicating in bribes and gibberish:
“Pick up your toys for Ice Cream!”
“Lip gloss, lip gloss – go to bed.”
“I’ll bet Hannah Montana picks up her Barbie.”
Then, in addition to Diva’s selective deafness phase, I am concerned about Mr. Smartypant’s foot.
I’m not sure if the stitches are healing properly. They still look icky. Nurse Dee Dee advised us to come back if the wound became red or swollen. The problem is I can’t tell if these signs of infection are present or if I just imagine them to be. After all, I know where his foot has been.
His “injury” has been a nightmare. He keeps ripping the bandage off to show people his wound – particularly those who might be appropriately grossed out, impressed or sympathetic (girls.) He screams in mock agony when I approach with the box of bandaids (yes, this is the same kid, who sat moon-eyed and allowed Dee-Dee to scrub him senseless with an iodine-soaked sponge.)
I’ve also noticed the foot aches when it suits him, such as prior to clean-up and bedtime. The remainder of the time, I’m chasing him off skateboards and admonishing him for his attempts to jump from tall buildings, kick his sister or scratch his foot with something the dog might’ve licked.
The whole ordeal has given me flashbacks to my youth. I recall my mother tending to our wounds: how she begged, hovered, nagged and flipped out when we decided to remove my surgical staples with Daddy’s pliers.
In fact, the memories were so vivid yesterday I heard mother’s voice emerge from my mouth – and say: “Well, when you trip over those Barbies and your stitches pop-out, don’tcha come crying to me!”
I think I was briefly possessed.