There are days when it is very difficult not to feel like a complete and utter failure.  Today has been one of those days.  To say that I misread a situation and failed to grasp the enormity of the signs being flashed before my eyes is putting it mildly…

J wants to be naked in his room because he has a rash.  This rash is so uncomfortable that the poor guy has been trying to scratch it, getting scolded for messing with his crotch and -like the idiot that I obviously am- I decided to respect his privacy instead of putting on my spelunking helmet and going in to check why the heck my poor son would be doing such a thing.

Yes…I thought he was being “a guy.”  Yes, I am not very smart.  And if you think I’m not berating myself over this, you are sorely and sadly mistaken.

Of course, I don’t hear the sentence “I think J has a rash” until nine-thirty at night…and that’s when I dash up the stairs and wake the poor dude up to investigate and -amid protests of LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT and what might have been a WHAT THE F*CK MOM- I find that yes, indeed, J was vigorously scratching for a reason.

Any bad mood, discomfort, testiness of temper, sadness, weepiness, irritability…all of it is explained and, hopefully, with proper care and attention, this too shall pass…unless this is some Gandalf-style fungus that yells NONE SHALL PASS and I have to call the doctor.

Over the next few days, perhaps weeks if we are to use the athlete’s foot incident as a benchmark, I will be seeing more of my son than I’ve seen in a long, long time.  We might not hang out together and be all buddy-buddy, but I’ll have to do things that I thought I’d left behind with the last diaper, Pull-Up and baby wipe I used on him…oh…YEARS ago.

The first order of business: new underwear.  I am going out and buying him all new skivvies to wear.  Second order of business: the poor guy will be able to sit comfortably in his room with the curtains drawn and proper ventilation to prevent any flare-ups.  Third order of business: oh, the apologies will be effusive and abundant…and I will make sure he gets a nice warm bath with ground oatmeal to relieve any itching…

These are the circumstances in which I wish my house had concrete walls.  The walls in this townhouse are cheap drywall…if I bang my head against them I will most certainly end up looking in on the neighbors, and that would be more punishment for them than for me.  I wish I could bash my head against a concrete wall for being so dense and so…clueless?  Airheaded?  Distracted?

If only J could talk.  If only J could say “I’m REALLY uncomfortable here!  HELP ME!”  If J could say “excuse me?  Anyone notice anything about how I’m scratching?”  TGG claims that if J could talk, the last thing he’d want to talk about is his precious cargo; he’d avoid the problem like the plague…and he’d “probably google the symptoms to see what he can do.”  I know this is true…not only do I have sons, but I am married to one man and have had another husband before.  I also have had a father, brothers and a rather cantankerous great-grandfather who turned looking surly into an art form…and then the doctor told us he had shingles.  When it’s something serious (or related to the nether regions of their bodies) men won’t say a thing, so J’s scratching was indeed more eloquent than if he’d been able to give a florid speech about his complaints.  My husband says the same thing, and I am inclined to believe them both; in fact, I DO believe them, but I also know that I am not going to feel better about this whole itch-thing in a long, long, long time…

Bad, bad mother…bad, bad, silly mother…

I am in the depths of despair and googling even as I type.


2 thoughts on “Sigh…

  1. I’m quite familiar with the “beating myself up” school of parenting, especially since I am the mother of four including a 23 year old male with Asperger’s Syndrome; BUT shouldn’t your husband be held partially responsible for this? I made it a policy to try to defer most matters of the penis over to him.

    • That was exactly my argument last night and he agreed that, yes, he feels like it is his…er…department? I told him my knowledge of penises is by association rather than possession of said appendage. So we’ve come up with a plan…which should prove interesting…

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