Tuesday, June 1, 2010

The Truth About Squeetles

WARNING: I'm angry so there will be swearing.

I failed to mention in my previous post that Squeetles originally made their appearance in reference to what I thought was a rash on Ben's backside. This rash had gone from a patch of red, dry skin to a patch of nasty raised bumps. I thought it was eczema and Ben thought it was Squeetle bites.

Ben was closer to the mark.

Over the weekend, the once isolated patch of bumps spread over Ben's entire body. My beautiful, sweet, precious little boy has scabies. Fucking mange. MY KID HAS MANGE. These horrid little mites have found their way onto Ben's skin, burrowed into his skin, and laid their hate-filled, putrescent eggs IN HIS SKIN. Don't Google "scabies". You'll find horrific pictures of penises. If you're curious, here's what a scabies mite looks like:

They are evil.

And now I'm the mom who has that kid with scabies. I bathe my kids on a regular basis. I do not allow them to wallow in filth and snuggle dirty, stray animals. I don't know what to tell you, my dear two readers. Their daycare had to contact the health department over this. I had already taken Ben out for the day for the doctor's appointment that has forever cast a pall over my parenting skills but I had to retrieve Ethan as well. The little guy was quarantined in the baby room with no one for company except one employee who was keeping her distance. I had to go to Walmart (I hate Walmart, mind you... HATE IT) to get the Rx cream to clear up this infestation because no one else in town carried this crap. I have had to douse both kids and myself in this goop. You know what the doctor didn't tell me? He didn't tell me that Ben would scream in fucking agony upon application of this ointment. He stood there, sobbing "mommy, you hurt me!" as I slathered him head to toe.

The worst part? The doctor told me that we'd have to wash all of our bedding and clothing in scalding water because these blood-sucking, egg-laying, little demons would "jump ship" as a result of the cream. I don't want them to jump ship. I want them to fucking die. Not just die, but FUCKING DIE. I want to hear agonized shrieks from their tiny mouths as they die. I want to be lulled to sleep by their throat-shredding wails of pain. I want these microscopic beasts to pay for every single welt they produced on my son's body. I want to enlarge them to the size of throw pillows so I can punch each and every one in its grotesque approximation of a face and then set them on fucking fire.

I think my eye is twitching...

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