Complaint Du Jour

Erik and I returned from a shopping trip to Target. We had a great time being out and about. I purchased some outdoor toys, including a tiny rake, sifter, and shovel. I wouldn't be surprised if he found something of historical significance lying in the dust around our yard, as there is an old military camp across the street. I am looking forward to playing in the dirt with him when things warm up. I also was pleased to see a magnetic drawing board on sale and bought one of those, which he finds fascinating.

Excuse me while I vent now.

I would like to take my son out in public just once without a complete stranger approaching us and telling me how red Erik's cheeks are. Just once! Yes, I know this is a seemingly trivial matter, but please allow me the luxury of venting about something superficial for once. I am weary of having people unknowingly remind me about my ongoing battle with Erik's eczema. It happens on a daily basis. Sadly, I'm not kidding. Yes, I realize he's as cute as a button with his darling red cheeks, but come on, people! I fight his skin problems on a daily basis with prescription creams and preparations that feel and smell like lard. I never really had the opportunity to use all of the sweet-smelling creams and potions made for babies I received at my baby shower or that beckon to me on shelves from their cute packaging at the store. Our creams are located in the geriatric skin care section, and they don't smell like lavender or baby powder. The backs of his arms, while not strikingly erythematous, feel much like the skin of a freshly plucked chicken. His face flakes and turns angry scarlet if I forget to apply hydrocortisone. His legs are covered with more subtle but equally persistent bumps. During the winter I just can't seem to get a handle on this and have halfway given up. A lot of the kids at Erik's school have the same slapped-cheek appearance. Some of them have weeping sores all over their bodies from cases of rampant eczema. In parent group, we often share war stories of our battles with this particular type of mysterious dermatitis. We have tried dietary changes, wet pajamas, oils, creams, and natural cure-alls to no avail. It's aggravating.

Sigh.

It seems like just yesterday perfect strangers were coming up to me and commenting on how ORANGE my kid was. At that time, he had problems with eating solid food and was full of Gerber dinners, which are packed with carrots, resulting in a cheery, day-glo hue. The last time I heard, "Oh my! He must be crazy about carrots!" I could feel the pulsating walls of the arteries in my temples threatening to give way and kill me on the spot. Being a generally polite, nice person, I simply took a deep breath and smiled pleasantly while I stood in the checkout line and indulged in a delightful little fantasy about producing a bejeweled .38 from my diaper bag. In the end, though, I found myself ecstatic when I saw that one morning Erik's Sunkist-orange color had completely faded away.

But for now we are red. Someday when Erik is a normal color I'm sure I'll reminisce about such classics as -- "Oh, my! It must be cold outside! Your cheeks are sooo red! How precious!" OR "I have NEVER seen such rosy cheeks!" I have been tempted to tell them Erik's simply drunk, but I know that wouldn't be wise. Tempting, though. My sense of humor is not for everyone.

Sigh. Yes, I know. They mean well.

On one especially trying morning at the physical therapy office, I actually told one woman who commented on his blush, "Yeah. It's a rash." I immediately felt terrible after I said it, but sometimes I just can't control myself after the second, third, or fourth time in a single outing hearing the same comment about my son's poor, tortured skin!

Hey, at least he's not orange anymore.