Splinter in the Grass

Easy there, Classic Mama,
this story is not nearly as racy as it sounds! ;)

The drama was unfolding while I was chatting with my mother on the phone. Dr. Doolittle was sitting behind me with tweezers and a magnifying glass, moaning and screeching about the pain he was inflicting on himself. The first splinter of bare foot season. Oh, how I hate bare foot season.

I hung up the phone after my mom and I got a good chuckle at Dr. D's quirky humor. The screeching and moaning was mostly for effect. Or so I thought. I poked around his disgusting sweaty foot for a minute and advised him to soak it in very warm water. I actually said "the hottest water you can tolerate," knowing that it would be lukewarm at best. The Boss and I set off for a nice walk around our neighborhood to look at all pretty landscapes and get some quiet time alone together. We needed it. Each of the four little gang members seemed particularly chatty and gregarious tonight. (Read: chaotic and out of control, with diarrhea of the mouth times FOUR!)

Upon return, we heard the melodic strains of Dr. D's French horn wafting through the open windows. The downstairs was empty, save for Shaggy hunched over the computer updating his little MP3 player with some country tunes (yes, another convert! yay me!!). I wandered upstairs to find Dr. D sitting on the edge of the tub, soaking his foot while he mournfully played the Star Spangled Banner on his French horn. Excuse me, his borrowed mellophone (a French horn for marching bands. Great. I'm going to be a marching band mom. yay me.) I set to work on the splinter.

What followed can only be described as hilarity. Pure dramedy. Screeching and howling and biting of towels was involved. Digging at dead skin and searching for potential entry points of the world’s largest splinter commenced. Laughing and admonishing my son to sit still, I poked and prodded. I wrangled his toe into weird and unnatural positions. I scraped some more and dug again. That little bugger was stuck and stuck deep. Out came the big guns. I thought Dr. D was going to wet himself when he saw me walk in with a utility razor. And being the sick and twisted Mom that I am, I got a little bit of a thrill and a not just a little giggle out of the suspense and dread he was now feeling. I could feel the blog post building in my head at that very moment. (These are the moments that I LOVE being a mom. Sick, I know.)

Finally, after scraping away LAAAAAAAAYERS of dead skin (I think I need a shower in some hospital strength disinfectant!) and digging the needle in under live skin, I called in The Boss for a third hand. While The Boss held the wound open and Dr. Doolittle screamed and moaned into a towel that I made him stuff into his mouth, I flicked the splinter out. I cleaned the toe thoroughly with rubbing alcohol. All that’s left for Dr. D is a little tenderness when he walks and a bit of sting - mostly to his pride. (We all heard him screaming like a girl, even through the towel!) And a strong aversion to running barefoot in the front yard while he takes practice swings with a 9 iron at the recyclables.

Now I’m off to scrub my hands with bleach. And maybe some lye if I can find it.