And the winner is..... BoDaisy! Bodaisy, email me at christie (at) christie-craig.com
It’s Sunday and I sit here at my desk trying to decide how to approach this very real, personal-experience blog. This one is a little more difficult than most. Don’t worry, it’s not overly sad, so you won’t need a box of tissues. Although, I’m sure my son would love to know that you shed a tear for all his pain and suffering. And yes, there was a lot of that. Unfortunately, the chances are, any tears you may experience will be tears of mirth.
So what’s so difficult about writing this blog? Well, the first thing I always do when approaching a blog is to figure out the underlined message, the theme, or as my old sixth-grade English teacher would call it, the premise. And that’s a problem, because in my opinion this blog has four morals/messages/themes. And I’m not sure which one really is the main topic. So I’m going to ask for your help. After reading the post, tell me which one of the below themes best describe this story. Or even better, if you have a different one, let me know.
1. Warning: Never try this at home
2. Mama always knows best—when will they ever learn?
3. If you can laugh at it, you can live with it—or at least you can when the skin grows back.
4. Why the expression “Chapped Ass” has a whole new meaning now.
Now, before I really start the blog, I feel I should tell you that I only write this with my son’s permission. There just isn’t much he won’t tell you. And his sense of humor is no doubt in optimum working order. You’ve heard the acronym TMI, right? Well to my son (I’ll admit it, he may have inherited this trait—from his father, of course) he thinks it stands for: Tell Me Instantly.
Okay, now that I’ve built up your curiosity, let me explain. The story begins several months ago. My son had been experiencing some back pain. He found that heat helped soothe his sore muscles. One morning, I’m sipping my hot coffee, he walked into my office shirtless and wearing PJ bottoms. Now when I’m writing, it takes a good opening line to get my attention out of a story. And he had a pretty good one, “Mom, does this look bad?”
He turned around and I immediately saw a blister the size of a nickel on his back.
“Heating pad,” he told me. “I fell asleep on it.” (Here is premise number one: Warning: Never try this at home.)
My mouth dropped open. “Good Lord, son. It has to be broken to get that hot. Throw it away!” (Premise number two: Mama knows best—will they ever learn?)
But did he listen to mom’s advice? Hell no. In his defense, it’s not all his fault. He was born with two serious ailments that led to this situation.
A: he’s a man. (This ailment is never going to change.)
B: he’s not quite out of the stage where he thinks everything his mom tells him is stupid, and some day mom will be forced to see this. (This ailment may change, but considering even this experience hasn’t made a load of difference, I’m not holding my breath.)
Anyway, back to the story. Let’s fast forward a week. I’m at my computer sipping my hot coffee and in walked my son, again shirtless and wearing PJ bottoms.
“Mom,” he said, “I hate to say it, but you might have been right.” Now this was an excellent opening line and I immediately gave him my full attention.
“The heating pad,” he said and frowned in what appeared to be pain.
I frowned back at him. “Turn around.”
He did and I didn’t see any nickel-sized blisters.
“I think you’re okay.”
He looked back at me over his shoulder. “I don’t think so. It’s not my back.” He reached his hand back and pointed downward.
Of course, I did what every loving, concerned parent would do. I started laughing. “You burnt your a$$?”
He nodded and smiled somewhat sheepishly. You gotta love that kid’s ability to smile in the face of pain.
Normally, I don’t ask to be mooned, but as I said, I’m a concerned parent. “Drop your drawers, buddy.”
Much to his credit, he flinched. “Do I have to?”
I give him the maternal stink eye.
“I’ve seen it before.”
He shot me the moms-are-idiots look and said, “You haven’t seen it in years. It might have changed. Gotten a lot prettier, of course.”
I rolled my eyes. “Just do it.”
He did it. Down came the PJ bottoms and I gave him my honest assessment and opinion, which was: “Holy Shit!” We’re not talking nickels anymore, people; we’re talking baseballs and both cheeks.
Now, for the sake of keeping this story from turning into a novel, let’s just jump forward to the emergency room.
“What’s the reason for your visit?” the attendant asked.
Hubby answered, “I’ve always said he was a pain the a$$, now he knows I’m right.” Yeah, hubby has a bit of a sense o f humor, too.
Now while there were some funny comments made about my son being unable to sit in the sitting room, let’s fast forward to when we actually see the good doctor whom I sure wished he’d called in sick that day.
Doctor said, “Pull your pants down.”
Son said, “Can I just open my mouth and say ‘Ahh?’”
Doctor said, “I have other patients.”
Son said, “Not like me you don’t. This one is going to be memorable—a highlight of your career. And by the way, it’s okay to laugh. My mom did.” He pulled down his pants, without succumbing to tears, which was amazing.
Doctor, a true professional, gave us a very intelligent assessment of the situation: “Holy shit!” (See, it wasn’t just me.)
Hubby said, “He’s a butt model, Doc. Please tell us his career isn’t over.” (Premise number 3: if you can laugh at it, you can live with it?)
The doc, obviously not a fan of the motto, said, “This is serious. Do you know what third degree burns mean?”
Son, who seldom does serious even when in extreme pain, and especially when he’s exposing his buttocks, said, “It means my mooning days are over ‘cause if I’m ever in lineup, they’ll know it was me.” That actually got a chuckle out of the doctor.
It also meant six weeks of wound therapy, and my son dropping his drawers to more women that he’d ever fantasized about.
It also meant my changing butt bandages for six weeks while desperately working on a deadline. So if my next book has a lot of a strange humor in it, you’ll know why.
And that concludes my story with the last underlined theme of: Why the expression “Chapped Ass” has a whole new meaning now.
So, what has been going on in your household? Anything exciting to share?
And today I have a very special contest. I’m giving away an ARC of Don’t Mess With Texas. That’s right, tell me which of the morals/messages/themes you feel better suited this story, or come up with a new one and one commenter will win an ARC of the first book in my Hotter in Texas series.