*Please don’t read this if you have a weak stomach or a sensitive gag reflex. This post may make you barf.*
I’m a gross person.
I enjoy gross things.
I’m a fan of farts.
I see the beauty in burps.
My olfactory perception is keen, which is a fancy way of saying that I’m a sniffer. A lost sippy cup discovered with chunky contents, a dirty diaper or my armpits after a hard day’s work…I’ll smell them all. Why? Because I’m gross.
I’m also a notorious picker.
Scabs, dry skin, blemishes, cradle cap…I have picked them all and never looked back…until yesterday.
My youngest son is a bit of a medical enigma. He has asthma and wonky sinuses and bad hearing and he tends to get the most random maladies.
For the past couple of months, he’s had this triangle of little white bumps on the shin of his left leg. I didn’t think much about it, until I noticed that they were getting bigger.
A few days ago after his bath, he reluctantly let me poke at the curious little bumps. I picked and squeezed and some goop came out and I felt a huge amount of satisfaction that the curious little bumps were nothing more than some peculiar leg pimples.
Several days later, as he was sitting watching TV, I glanced over at the area where the curious little bumps had been and noticed that his leg looked rather swollen. I gasped at the realization that the curious little bumps had merged into one giant, flaming red, pus filled mountain of ick.
Being a picker, my first instinct was to pop that sucker, but I resisted. I called my husband over to check out the nasty leg action and he was like, he needs to see a doctor.
Off to the doctor they went. I waited at home with my other children. I was totally distracted by my complete obsession of what could be sprouting out of my son’s leg. Was it a giant pimple? A mutated blackhead? A goiter? A boil? Gout? Ringworm? Flesh Eating Disease?
WHAT WAS IT?!?!?!?
About an hour later my husband and son returned home. Turns out it was just three little blackheads on his leg that morphed into a giant infection because I picked at them.
I know you’re thinking that I’m a terrible mother with a picking addiction that has spiraled out of control. Call the Intervention people stat. My addiction really is affecting the people I love in negative ways. I hope Candy Finnigan is free. I think her sassy approach and tough love is just what I need to kick the habit.
So now my poor son has to take antibiotics four times a day for ten days. I’m under strict orders not to pick at him. Apparently, the drugs will help ease the infectious ooze out of his giant leg crater.
How gross will that be? I picture an epic explosion of goop blasting out of his leg. All smelly and scabby and full of pus…
I CAN’T WAIT!
*I’m sorry if you ignored my disclaimer and still read this and then yacked all over yourself. I think barfing is pretty funny, but then again, I’m a gross person. I should be ashamed of myself, but I’m not. Three cheers for being gross!*