You Might Need to Go to the Hospital, Lady

Yesterday was Dash’s first day at school here in Austin, and after spending the morning recovering from his extraordinarily harsh farewell (”See ya.” No crying, no screaming, no nothing.), I ended up coming back a little earlier than the scheduled time to pick him up. After a busy morning of writing, cleaning and realizing that I have the world’s largest under-the-skin zit on my cheek, I was ready for a little validation.

I spotted his big yellow backpack from across the yard, it was sitting on a bench alone, and immediately spotted my little guy coming down the slide. He didn’t see me. Wait, he did see me. No, he couldn’t have seen me, or else he’d be running towards me. There’s no way he saw me. By the time this fascinating and delusional internal dialogue was complete, I’d reached the outside gate to the playground, and he obviously saw me.

Mothers, wither away with me for a second here. At three and a half, my son is already at the “Oh fuck, mom is here.” stage. It’s not that he doesn’t care about me, it’s that he realizes me being there means it’s time to go home.

He doesn’t want to go home.

So, it was with this sinking feeling of overwhelming My Son Might Not Care About Me that I entered the playground and tried to get Dash’s attention. I waved, I called his name, I moved around the perimeter of the park just in case he didn’t see me. Then it happened: he looked at me, made eye contact, and ran back to the swings with his new friend. He was, no doubt, thinking, “Maybe she didn’t see me.” just as I was thinking, “Maybe he didn’t see me!” I jumped up and down a bit.

As if on cue from the Stop Embarrassing Yourself troupe, a little boy with a bandage on his neck tugged at my coat.

“I went to the hospital!’
“Oh really? Well are you ok?”
“Yeah, a big bug bit my face!”
“His mole exploded,” the teacher’s assistant said, laughing. “But he thinks he was bit by a bug.”
“I see. So, are you all better now?” I asked the little boy, who was still studying me as if I held some sort of pertinent information necessary for his survival.
“Yeah.”

I stepped forward a bit to see if Dash was still on the swings, feeling the little boy tugging at my coat again.

“Hey lady!”
“Yes?”
“Maybe you need to go to the hospital, too.”
“No, I feel fine, why would I need to go to the hospital?”
“Well you have a big bug bite on your face, too!”

Great. Discarded by my son and in need of professional care due to my mysterious acne.

At least one of the three year olds on the playground was worried about my well-being.

Nothing like having your kid pissed off at you for showing up to take him home. Zachary does it too. Once he even cried. And I don’t even beat him!

oh wow. nothing brightens your day like a child pointing out a zit. i think i’ve been there. but i blocked it out.

Perhaps it’s a good thing Nicholas can’t yet talk about my zits. However, when he’s in the middle of a screaming rampage of which I’m trying to calm him down by rocking, cooing, and what have you, his little Nicholas hand always finds its way to the most painful zit on my face at which time he whacks it with full force. I think I then hear him laugh.

exploding mole? google, help!

oh, an “under the skinner” and a mom shirker. what a day.

I’ve got and “under-grounder” the size of Staten Island on my chin…and plenty of coffee…along with acne relief…over at my house ;o)

I’ve got a lurker on my cheek as well. What fun!

Kids just love pointing that stuff out. They seem to make it their personal business to point of the obvious that is conveniently embarrassing.

I’m a newcomer to your blog and I love it. You’re such a great writer and I love your humour. I also love Dash’s name. I tried not to think of The Incredibles.

I have a lurker on my cheek too! Wtf, jesus?