Last week, I was rummaging around in the fridge trying to find suitable elements for the kids’ lunches; it’s no easy task when they turn their noses up at anything more exotic than bread and butter, cheese and bananas. I saw the small pots of hummus that the boys claim to detest only intermittently and decided to pop a few of those into their lunch boxes (a.k.a. the place where parenting dreams go to die).
Except in my haste at finding something that they might (maybe, possibly?) consume without too much whinging and wailing, I scraped the back of my hand. Just a small graze, I thought, as I continued to load their lunches with crackers, apple sauce, granola bars. I’m sure there are sanctimommies out their who would be appalled at the nutritional choices I make for my children. But there’s only so many kale chips and organic quinoa I can chuck in the garbage before giving in and doling out the pre-packaged snack foods.
I thought little of my wound until a couple of days later when the scrape had turned into something more of a gash, one that periodically oozed greenish goo.
Why don’t you go the medicentre? the hubs asked.
I reminded him of the last time we just
went to the medicentre: four hours of sitting and staring at posters of perforated bowels and rabidly contagious skin infections, all the while trying prevent the children from swapping whatever ailment they had contracted with the forty other small children, each of whom seemed bound and determined engage in a kind of germ pot luck that would’ve made Edward Jenner marvel.
Instead, I opted just to slather it in polysporin.
To a degree.
The degree being that it looked exactly the same but I positively reeked of whatever is in that particular unguent (methol? urea? unicorn tears?).
Over the next couple of days, it got redder and angrier. I may have casually googled the symptoms for blood poisoning and gangrene, you know, just to be safe.
What really kept me from seeking legitimate medical intervention — Dr. Google being only as good as the paranoid individual using it — wasn’t so much an aversion to contracting yet another pathogenic cornucopia, but to having to explain the cause. Step aside #firstworldproblems and #waitroseproblems we have a new winner, the pinnacle of middle class pretension: injury by single-portion hummus. Can you imagine?