Wednesday, November 20, 2013

Balls to the wall

There’s a moment in parenthood when your child crosses over from baby, to not baby. It happens really quick so if you’re catching up on Walking Dead and Homeland episodes you’re liable to miss it. That moment when being naked in their presence was once acceptable is no longer, acceptable.  You don’t realize it happened until a situation arises and you’re forced to get all up in their sacred places. 

Logan had been scratching at himself for a couple days. I finally came to terms with the fact that I needed to have a looksie. (Shivers) So I awkwardly make the request that he let me look at his wee-wee. His petrified expression assured me we had entered the I’m too old for you to see me naked stage.

Upon further review I determined he did in fact have chapped balls. Now, I’ve never had chapped balls in the literal way, but I have in the hypothetical way and can imagine the literal way is much more unpleasant. I’m just guessing.

Despite what my enemies might say about me, I’m not a ball expert and have no idea what to do with such things when they’re damaged. Fearful I might be arrested for researching toddler wiener help on Google, I opted with Vaseline. Applied that for a couple days but the itching persisted. Only now, there was a light pink rash spreading everywhere. Oh my balls  stars! 

After taking his junk to a professional to assess the damage he was diagnosed with a yeast infection. Apparently yeast is does not discriminate towards the female sex.  Who knew? I could have cured this myself with a little Monostat. Knowledge for the future. So, he’s prescribed some cream and we are instructed to apply this cream, twice a day for 14 days. With our hands. 

Each time I go to put this cream on his no-nos he screams, NOOOOOO! DON’T PUT IT ON MY WEE-WEE!!! Well excuse me son, where would you like me to put it? Your ear? Trust me, I can think of a hundred other things I’d rather rub cream on and my toddler’s junk ain’t one of em. This isn’t a day at Disney for me either. He puts up a valiant struggle; Limbs and other things go flying everywhere. He finally succumbs to the awkward realization that this is gonna happen. He assumes the wishbone position, and our decent into hell begins. We don’t make eye contact. He looks away, up and backwards like women do at gyno visits.  This cream must be completely rubbed in for it to really work. So basically I’m forced to do a Swedish massage on his stuff and it’s so, so terrible. 

Repeat all of the above twice a day. 

This time a few weeks ago after school I would ask, “How was your day buddy?” Now I’m asking, “How’s your wiener today?” 

This goes against nature. Nothing about this is right.