The other day, Babyface took a nice, big spill. Her private parts landed on top of her foot. This would never happen to me. I’m envious of her flexibility, but who ever thought it could cause pain. Sometimes, I wonder if her entire body is double jointed, she’s so flexible.
She never cries when she gets hurt, unless it’s really bad. She often fakes a stomach ache to get what she wants, but isn’t a good enough actress to fake tears. There’s some whining. There’s some hugging. But she gets to the real point fairly quickly. Her patience is short, so I always know what she really wants in under a minute. “I have a stomach ache. Can I have some chocolate?”
My answer, now, is always, “well, I guess you’ll have to lay in bed and drink lots of water.”
This is always the instant, verbal remedy for her attempts at manipulation. My dad would always say, “Mom, get out the Jivan Mixture.”
Jivan Mixture was this nasty medicine that my parents brought back with us after we visited India. Think caster oil. The stuff was so bad that it could induce vomiting just from the smell. And, the stench was so strong that I could smell it from the next room. It worked every time. If I were trying to stay home from school, I’d have my clothes, shoes and backpack on, within minutes.
When Babyface fell on her foot, this particular time, her wail was real and near mortifying. Luckily, we were able to ice it and relieve the pain after about ten minutes. This time, I gave her a Popsicle without her even asking. (I hope she doesn’t catch on anytime soon and improve her acting chops or she may head for Type 2 diabetes soon.) All I wanted to do was make her feel better for even a few minutes; she was in so much of pain.
A couple of days passed and she needed to do a number two (or a deuce, as Hubs refers to it). She did her business and Hubs wiped her. There was blood. I’m not talking a drop; there were many. Hubs asked me to take a look and I could feel the bathroom spin a bit after I caught a glimpse. It made me nervous. It made me nauseous. Hubs gave me the stink eye to remind me that I needed to keep my anxiety in check and act like nothing was wrong.
Whenever Babyface gets really hurt, I always feel like I’m refining my own acting chops. Part of being a parent is pretending everything is ok, even when we’re not sure it is. Do they have Oscars for parents?
I immediately thought of the way she had fallen, a couple of days prior, and wondered about her hymen. After the dust had settled and Babyface was distracted with some dolls, I snuck into our bedroom and, frantically, searched Google for answers. This is where I type in all of the wrong searches and end up with the C-word, every damn time. I’m a master at searching for a simple diagnosis and always ending up with something terminal. Hubs will soon ban Google from our house, I’m sure. Is that even possible?
Well, it was a weekend, so all I could do was make an online appointment and wait until the next day. If the blood increased, I would pass out, wake up and then take her to the ER.
The next day, we took her to the doctor and found out that she had a tear in her tiny butthole. I’d think of a less TMI word, but there really isn’t one. It was only a few millimeters, but enough to cause several drops every time we wiped. So, for the past two days, Neosporin and antibacterial soap have been our hourly regimen. I’ve washed my hands so many times that they’re starting to ache.
Moral of the story: don’t search Google and don’t assume your daughter’s foot can break her hymen. Kids can be blocked from certain sites, but can parents be banned from medical, Google searches? As much as it would annoy me, it would save me a lot of stress.