Porter's Salve

Yesterday my son got a splinter. We were at my parent’s house and it was late in the
afternoon. He was playing in the dirt. I was inside, preparing to leave, when I heard a screech. My son came running in the house, screaming
as if he had just been attacked by a cougar. He was completely hysterical. I
gave him a hug and did my best to comfort him but he was inconsolable and incapable of communicating in a coherent
manner. I did not see any obvious
wounds so I decided to wait until he calmed down to find out what
happened. He finally yelped between
screams that he had gotten a splinter.  Here's a little sample of his rant:




“Get it out Mommy! I
want it to stop hurting. I don’t want
it to get in my body! I want you to
make it stop hurting. Ow! Owie! Ugh. Ugh. Ugh. It hurts! It hurts! It hurts! Ow!” This was repeated over and
over again in an unbearably loud, piercing screech. I enlisted my Mother, an RN, to help me get the splinter
out. We sat my still-hysterical son on
the bathroom counter and tried to get him to let my Mother see his
splinter. Here’s how he responded:

“I don’t want tweezers. NO tweezers! You get it out
Mommy. You just get it out with your
hand! Get it out! Ow! Ow! Ow! It hurts! It still hurts! It hurts real
bad!”

My Mom left to sterilize a needle (the splinter was embedded
pretty deep and no part of it was sticking out). After she walked out of the room I asked my son if I could look
at it. He was apprehensive but he allowed
me to look at his finger after he determined that I did not have any tools in
my possession.

“Get it out with your hands Mommy. I don’t want tweezers,” he begged me between screams of pain.

I tried, unsuccessfully, to dig it out with my nails. I told him that I couldn’t get it out unless
I used tweezers. He freaked and
continued to scream. I don’t think I
can do his behavior justice. If Wes
Craven were around to hear it, he may have hired my son to do some voiceover
work on his next horror flick. It was
awful, ear-piercing and unbelievably frustrating. I wondered if it would ever end and my mind started to race. Did he break his finger? What about his arm? What if he broke his arm and I am squeezing
his poor, little broken bones with a death grip to get this stupid splinter
out? Why is he screaming? Did he fall and bump his head while he was
outside, inflicting a concussion that makes him scream uncontrollably? Shit. I’m the worst mom ever.

After much drama, we gave up trying to get the splinter out and packed the kids in the
car. My son was still screaming
uncontrollably. As I was backing out of
the drive-way, doing my best to come to terms with my new life as the mom of
the kid with the concussion that makes him scream uncontrollably, a light bulb
went off in my head. Porter's Salve! I forgot about my husband’s family’s old
school, Appalachian remedy. Porter's
Salve is a drawin’ salve (I absolutely cannot spell ‘drawing’ the correct way
and convey what this product is). It’s a product that was probably featured in ads in Kentucky during episodes of “Hee Haw”
in 1975. It works, though. It “draws things out.” I wouldn’t use it to remove a bullet embedded
in my chest (my husband’s family would) but it sure does work like a charm on
splinters.

When we got home I put some Porter's Salve (the Hale's always have a can on-hand) and a band-aid on
the splinter. The screaming had ceased,
thank goodness, and my son seemed resigned to a life of chronic pain. We just finished dinner and I removed
yesterday’s band-aid. There is no trace
of that pesky splinter in my son’s finger. Nothin’ like a little Appalachian folk remedy, y’all!

My Daughter Vs. A Bowl of Spaghetti

Who won?

Zero to Crazy

I welcomed Damien back into my home today. He made a brief (here’s hoping!) but
significant return into my life. I’ve
decided to blame his return on daylight savings time. My kids are waking up later than usual and have yet to adjust to
the new time schedule. Springing
ahead seems to be a significant adjustment for them. Thank goodness this week is spring break and, as such, I have
unplugged the alarm clock and assigned my son the task of waking up
Mommy.  This morning my son trotted up
the stairs at 8:55 and announced his presence with a, “Good morning
Mommy!” I roused myself out of sleep,
made a b-line for the shower and went through my usual morning routine. We came downstairs, got my daughter out of
her crib and went to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. As I was microwaving some mini-pancakes and
pouring the milk, my son yelled from the living room, “I’m going to eat my
breakfast in the living room Mommy.” I
reminded him of our rule that all meals were to be eaten in the kitchen. He asked again, “Please Mommy, can’t I just
eat my breakfast in the living room? I
promise I won’t make a mess.” Once
again, I told him that he could not. Then, as if my
words triggered a switch in his brain, my son’s behavior went from zero to crazy
in two seconds flat. He took his
beloved stuffed dog, threw it at me and said in his almost-forgotten demon
screech, “I AM EATING IN THE LIVING ROOM! IF YOU DON’T LET ME I’LL NEVER LISTEN TO YOU AGAIN!”

His rage and throwing the toy qualified him for an
immediate time-out. He fought me,
hitting and kicking while I carried him to the naughty mat. He refused to stay on the mat and was
therefore taken to his room. I locked
the door (this may sound harsh but when my son is raging it is the only way to
keep him confined). He raged and
room-wrecked and said incoherent things in his demon screech for the first two
minutes of his time-out. I heard many
objects hitting the door with a thump.

I made a decision, right then and there, that whatever toy
fallout was in his room from getting thrown against the door was going directly
into the trash. As I walked into his
room to release him from time-out, I said a little prayer that none of his good
toys would be on the floor. I got
lucky. There were two large toys that
had clearly been thrown against the door multiple times and both of them were
bought at yard sales. They still had
significant value for him but there was no sentiment or major cost involved so
it made the trip to the trashcan relatively painless for me. My son, on the other hand, had a conniption
fit when I dropped the truck and helicopter in the trashcan. I took him by the hand, led him to his door
and let him look at the damage he had done. The door looked like it had been attacked by a rabid tiger. It was covered in scratches and nicks. Thank goodness it is old and made of solid
wood. Otherwise it would have never
survived my son’s toy assault.

It is 5:00 now and both my kids are napping. We have all recovered from the
daylight-savings-time-induced hysteria episode. I’ll have to remember this next time we have to adjust our clocks
in the fall. I’ll do a little exorcism
the day after we “fall behind.”

Parental Ingenuity

A personalized CD of mixed children’s songs, a package of
sidewalk chalk with a personalized label, a size-appropriate T-shirt with an iron-on transfer of Elmo; these are
all party favors that my children have received in the past couple of
years. This once simple party accessory
has evolved into a full-fledged contest of parental ingenuity. It is no longer acceptable to fill cheap
plastic bags with candy, kazoos and rubber balls. Party favors are a status
symbol and they are less about how expensive they are and more about
originality and creativity.

My friend, Jacquelyn, held a party for her son’s third
birthday today and experienced a little stress as a result of party favor
planning. The goal of the party host
(in most cases, the child’s Mom) is to provide the favor that will make the
best impression on the parents. The
more, “what a great idea!” and “where did you ever come up with that?” you
hear, the better. Jacquelyn managed to
set the bar pretty high with her plastic buckets of sidewalk chalk complete
with a personalized label that featured a picture of her son and said, “Thank
you for coming to my party.” It was a
great idea and one that garnished a great deal of praise. As an added bonus, it was relatively inexpensive.

My daughter’s birthday is less than two months away.  I have yet to book a venue and I'm already contemplating clever party favors.  If you have any ideas that would beat the
personalized sidewalk chalk, please email them to me privately. The party favor contest is one that I must
win!

A Tale of Two Bubbas

I received a “Bubba” pacifier as a baby gift before
I had my son. It was, hands down, my
favorite gift. It is much like the
plastic prosthetic Bubba teeth that gained popularity several years back except
in pacifier form. It is absolutely hysterical.
My daughter has a little love affair going on with her pacifier. She has two addictions in her young
life: her pacifier and her blankie. She can be found with both at least 50
percent of the time when we are home. 

There are many pacifiers hidden throughout our house because
of my daughter’s habit. She’s like a
dog. She finds one, hides it somewhere
in the house and then digs it out days, weeks or months later when she gets the
urge. The Bubba pacifier manages to
find its way into my daughter’s random pacifier rotation. Months will go by and I will forget that it
even exists. It will get filed away
under “MIA” along with the milk-filled Blues Clues sippy cup that went missing in January. Then, out of nowhere, the Bubba pacifier
will make an appearance. It happened
this morning.

I got my son off to school and came back home to get some
things done around the house. My
daughter was playing in her room quietly. I sat down on the couch to fold some laundry and she waddled into the
living room dragging her blankie with that Bubba pacifier in her mouth. I nearly peed my pants. She was dressed in an adorable little dress
with pigtails, dragging her crocheted pink blankie with a mouthful of yellow,
crooked, horse-sized teeth. It was a
classic moment and it made my day. It
appears that I have two Bubbas living under my roof.

That's What Pirates Do

My kids and I have been taking advantage of the beautiful
weather lately and spending a great deal of time in the back yard. I usually open the back door and let the
kids play on the porch while I get some things done in the kitchen. Then I’ll come outside and read the paper
while they play. I do, however, try to
work in some quality time with them. With my multi-tasking mindset it is sometimes difficult to focus on just
the kids so I try to set up the egg timer for at least one hour of quality play
time. During that time I try to let my
son’s imagination lead us in play. This
always makes for some interesting dialogue. Yesterday was no exception. Here’s the conversation we had:

Son: (up on the
swing set “fort”) Come up here
pirate! Swab the decks! Baton down the hatches! Arrgghhh…

Me: Aye aye
Captain!

Son: Do you see
those children playing over there?

Me: Yes.

Son: When they
fall asleep, you need to dress up like an old woman and take all of their toys.

Me: (trying to stay
in character) What sir?

Son: You need to
dress up like an old lady and take all of the toys from those children while
they are asleep.

Me: Why?

Son: Because
that’s what pirates do. They aren’t
nice. They take toys from children.

Me: And why do I
have to dress up like an old lady?

Son: To trick the
children. 

Me: Because old
ladies would never steel toys from children?

Son: Yes.

Me: OK.

This went on for quite some time. I would don my old lady dress, old lady hat, and old lady cane
and walk around our backyard, stealing toys from unsuspecting sleeping
children. When I brought the toys to my
son he would take out his air sword and air-smash them to bits. We all had fun and I received a life lesson
about the inherent wickedness of pirates as well as the inherent goodness of
old ladies. 

The Birds and the Bees

My friend and I had a discussion at dinner this weekend that
managed to scare the pants off of me. We were talking about the inevitable "birds and the bees" discussion with our kids. She has
a five year old little girl and my son is four so these talks are still a
safe distance away but they are there, looming in a dark corner, laughing at
our fear.

I’m not doing very well in the field of sexual education thus far. According to most experts (and by most
experts I mean Dr. Phil and Supernanny), you should refrain from referring to
your child’s private parts with nonsense words like “pee-pee” and
“wee-wee.” Strike one. My son would hear the word, “penis” (not
from my mouth—I chuckle just thinking about saying it) and wonder what the heck
I was talking about. The fact that one
paragraph ago, I referred to sex as “the birds and the bees” does not bode well
for my future. Experts also suggest
that you should answer children honestly when they ask you questions about
sex. Strike two. My son recently asked me where babies come
from and I was taken off guard and mentioned something about God and tummies. I’m not really
sure what I said and this, I imagine, would not please Nanny Jo.

I guess I am in need of some education in this arena. I want my kids to communicate with me about
these things openly.  The first step in accomplishing this goal is going to
have to be taken by yours truly. I need to let
go of the taboo that surrounds talking about sex myself so that my kids don’t
feel silly or embarrassed when asking me questions. Until I am able to utter the word, “penis” without cracking a smile, I am
completely worthless as a sex educator. I’m off to stand in front of the mirror and utter the words “penis” and
“vagina” five times in succession. Say
it with me now…