Owen, age 9
Recently, my son gave me a scare.
I was getting breakfast ready when he slunk into the kitchen, obviously
trying to stay out of my line of sight. “Good morning, buddy,” I said. No
response from the normally chatty Owen, who was covering his face with his
shirt.
“Why are you hiding behind your shirt?” I asked. “Come on out and have
something to eat.”
“I can’t,” he mumbled through the fabric. “Something is wrong with my
face.”
“Something is wrong with your face?”
I shouted. Breakfast is too early in the day to lose my grip (yet,
pathetically, it happens all the time).
“There are dots all over it,” he said, at which point I demanded he let
me see. He sighed and pulled his shirt down into place. His face was covered
with garish purple spots. Nearly 10 of them, in fact. My jaw dropped as the
word PESTILENCE flew into my brain (followed, irrationally, by MEASLES, MUMPS, RUBELLA, and SCARLET
FEVER).
“What is wrong with you?” I shrieked.
I didn’t know if I should touch him or place him in quarantine, but I went
ahead and made sure he didn’t feel feverish. I also took a soapy rag to his
cheeks, chin and forehead to see if this was some sort of joke. It was not.
At this point, my husband had entered the kitchen and was surveying the
scene with his usual mix of mild concern and amusement. “I’d call the
pediatrician, Laura,” he graciously offered up.
Right.
As I was reaching for my phone, Owen’s eyes grew large and he gave me a
look. You know that look, don’t you? It’s a blend of fear and guilt, and I can
recognize it on my son’s face a mile away. I set down the phone. “Buddy, before
I call the doctor, please tell me if
there’s something I should know about your face. Did you do anything to it?
Anything at all?”
And with that, Owen nodded slowly while he slipped his hand into his
pocket. He brought out a little rubber pencil-topper, similar to an eraser but just for
decoration. The tiny alligator head sat in the palm of his hand. “Owen,
what did you do with the alligator
head?” I asked. None of this was making sense. Then, he mimed using the alligator
head as a suction cup on his face, and everything was suddenly, absurdly, clear.
“Oh, my GOD, Owen used the ALLIGATOR
HEAD to give himself hick—,” my husband started yelling with glee, but I
cut him off with a look of death before he could finish. As far as I’m
concerned, “hickey” does not need to be the newest addition to my son’s
vocabulary.
“Owen, did you really use the pencil-topper as a suction cup all over your
face?” I asked. He nodded. “Did you do it just now, after waking up?”
He shook his head. “I did it last night in bed when I was trying to
fall asleep.”
Twelve hours out and his hickeys looked as good as new; I supposed they weren't going to fade anytime soon. An executive decision needed to be
made.
“Well, I’m so relieved you aren’t sick. You are going to school and you’ll have
to hold your head high,” I said briskly. “I’m going to call your teacher and
the school nurse and tell them about your bruises”—
I glowered at my husband here – “and let them know you’re not contagious.”
To his credit, Owen went to school and survived his classmates’ stares
and curiosity. I, on the other hand, didn’t make peace with his hickey
situation as easily: it was just another piece of evidence that I’m woefully
unprepared to handle the ludicrous things my children choose to do.
***
I met some girlfriends for coffee after Owen had gone off to school. Our
conversation began like every conversation does – “What’s going on?” etc.
etc. My customary response to this question is “Nothing” because, mercifully,
we are healthy and fine and life is trucking along mostly uneventfully.
But I’m starting to think “Nothing and everything, both at the same
time” is a reply that’s much closer to the truth. Because like everybody else, I’ve got
my ordinary stuff going on that no one wants to hear about (like how I need to
clean the toilets and stop at the grocery store to buy spaghetti for dinner),
but if I scratch at the surface there is so much simmering underneath (like the gargantuan
concerns I have about my kids, my work, the world). These things have the power
to take my breath away if I dwell on them, so I avoid it. But they’re
always there.
Back to coffee: when my friends started in with their usual questions
that particular morning, “Nothing and everything” was the only way for me to
respond to them. Because, really, how else does one begin to explain that her
son has given himself a face-full of hickeys with a pencil-topper?
