Poorly Boy

Much as I’d been dreading it, I still wasn’t fully prepared for how I would feel when my son got sick for the first time. I’m sure there will be worse moments to come, but seeing his poor, red-ringed tush spew forth a spray of brownish green, foul-smelling sludge made me want to strangle the…well, strangle the microbes altering his usually sunshine-yellow latte. It made me physically ill, even after the waft of putridity passed.

(We’re now beginning to wonder if the change in his poop [technical term] is food related and not viral. So I may have to strangle the dairy industry instead. In actuality, if I analyzed every nuance of my own stool as much as I do his, I’d never leave the house. Though it probably wouldn’t be such a bad idea to pay a little more attention to my bowels, beyond, “Ooh, that was a good one.” I suppose it’s the difference between actually being able to communicate and/or deny how I’m feeling, versus his limited vocabulary. Currently, his feces is his voice. Plus, if I learn to read his diapers properly, I might discover a tall, dark stranger in my future.)

Part of my concern is simply that he’s small and helpless. Part of it is vicarious vanity. It’s a stain on his otherwise perfect appearance. No, that’s not actually true. He’s not perfect. Nobody’s perfect. There’s a little dry skin that keeps popping up over his right eye (which I can’t help picking). And a scratch or two on the sides of his nose or under his eyes (damn Edward Scissorhands fingernails need cutting every fifteen minutes). And he’ll periodically have a stuck booger, which mars his gentle, breezy breathing and doesn’t do his button justice. In which case I am forced to twirl a small piece of toilet paper and go fishing, much like chimps forage for termites. If that doesn’t work, there’s the bulb aspirator and/or saline drops. Personally, I like being hands on about it (though my hands are too big to reach inside). If only “got your nose” actually worked, I could clean that sucker out good.

But he’s pretty damn perfect. Most importantly because, despite shitting raw sewage, he’s as smiley and affable as ever. I don’t have the heart to tell him about the wax in his ears or the regenerating lint between his fingers and toes or his slightly misshaped head.

(Damn it, I should never look these things up. Apparently, that can be a problem. Now I have to go in and try to reposition his head while he’s sleeping; otherwise he might have to wear a helmet. Actually, my head’s a little flat in the back. Maybe this explains my poor spatial relations.)