A while ago, like maybe a month ago… or longer, Kendall walked up to the lawnmower right after Scott turned it off, touched it, and burned his finger pretty good. He had an “owie” there for quite a while, even after the blister popped, and though it’s healed now, he still holds his hand out for me to kiss while saying, “mawnmower, HOT, owie.” And so I kiss it and we talk about not touching the lawnmower because it’s hot and will give owies. In fact, he now associates anything hot, or really, anything that gives owies to the “mawnmower.” Anytime he gets hurt he blames the mawnmower. (Scott’s afraid this is going to lead to some sort of mowing-the-lawn-phobia, thus defeating the purpose of having a boy around in 13 years, but I remind him we have plenty of time for therapy between now and then.)
My face, as of about 2 or 3 weeks ago (can you tell my perception of time is all stretched and bunched like a fun house mirror from laying around the house completely useless for so long?) began erupting into a minefield of 8th grade, smells like Teen Spirit, greasy, mountainous acne. The kind that hurts so bad that you just want to pop it and be done with it, but that has built a fortress of steel around itself, sending the stuff you want out further into your face every time you try to squeeze it, leaving you with no other choice but to wage war on your face until you’re left with giant, bright red, painful splotches that eventually scab up and can never be properly concealed by any sort of concealer. You know, that kind?
I type this only after knocking on every piece of wood within arm’s reach. I *think* the acne has passed. I’ve gone nearly a week without a new breakout on my face (though I did have a particularly nasty one on my neck, and if I could get a matching one right next to it, I might be able to pass it off as some cool new vampire trend). That’s not to say that damage is not still evident, though, because I guess it takes your face FOREVER to generate new skin. So my point is, last week I had a face full of scabs.
My darling son, so brilliant, pointed to my head one night before bed last week. I, thinking we were playing the “name that body part” game again, began rattling off, “Nose? Eyes? Ears?” He looked at me confused and said, “Momma, owie. MAWNMOWER,” while pointing to the battlefield that is my face.
Yes, yes. The lawnmower ran over my face, leaving owies all over the f-ing place. This has absolutely nothing to do with hormones and everything to do with renegade lawn equipment. Let’s tell ourselves that, shall we?
Kendall is 2 and hilarious and I’m 11 weeks pregnant