Where were we? Ah. Quinn.
Not that Quinn in and of himself is disgusting, he's actually adorable (see below), but his skin has proven to be highly desirable as a media for other species, which is both horrifying and disgusting.
The barnacles in his arm pit are unchanged and it lulled me into complacency. I'd about get rid of one and another would grow, but they didn't seem to be multiplying faster than I could irritate them into submission. He started complaining about itchiness on the bottom of his foot and taking off his socks in embarrassing locations - like the middle of the supermarket aisle or the doorway of preschool - to dig enthusiastically at his foot bottom crevices.
I asked my resident pioneer pharmacist, who said to buy "lotrimin." I found it, but the tube was labeled "Jock Itch" not "Horrifically Itchy Foot." (That is foreshadowing.) I bought it anyway. It had the right active ingredient. And then I treated the shit out of the bottom of his foot for a week. My reward for my diligence was Quinn waking up one morning with a bright red rash in his und.erwear area at which he scratched with similar enthusiasm. Gusto even. When I mentioned the growing problem to pioneer pharmacist Matt, he shrugged again and said, "Well, it's the same fungus."
"I'm sorry, fungus?"
"Athlete's foot and jock itch."
Let's go back to the part where it's a fungus?
"He probably spread it up on his und.erwear. Or on his fingers."
Shudder. I think I requested the phone and then I may have lost consciousness briefly but as I revived I asked for the phone again from my spot on the hardwood floor.
"Phone?" Matt mocked me.
"I. need. the. phone."
"No. You are not taking him to the pediatrician. I'm not paying $25.00 plus 20% for jock itch."
-- Intermission where I lose consciousness again from horror and ire. --
"GIVE ME THE PHONE. I want the phone now before I get jockfoot fungus on my face."
"Maybe you should keep your face off the floor?"
Matt is annoyingly always right, for the record, and our no-nonsense, public-health, HMO-minded pediatrician looked at me like I was certifiable. I have not a clue where anyone gets that idea.
"Yep. It's a fungus," she agreed.
Me: ---
"You need to keep it open to the air."
"Mmmmm," I hedged. "But that involves uncovering his foot."
Her: ---
"He walks around my house."
"Fungi hate light and air. It will die quicker."
"Yes, but, here's the thing, I have to walk around my house."
She was astonishingly unsympathetic and while I can, from a healthy distance, appreciate her dry, sarcastic mocking of my amateur-mother-of-fungus-sprouting-boys horror, at the time, I was unamused.
"Isn't there a prescription or something, so that we can just clear this up?"
My lovely, HMO-public-health-minded pediatrician rolled her eyes, a gesture that clearly conveyed that Matt and I paid the lowest premium for herd medicine. And the herd could take a little fungus. It was expected. Healthy even. The herd was fine and the herd manager, Group Health, refused to pay for a prescription because the herd's mother is squeamish about public displays of fungus scratching. THE END.
I support this in principle. I agree that health care is more efficient in the aggregate and that trivial problems that are capable of being handled by our sufficient, if slow, immune response ought to be left to their own devices. EXCEPT WHEN IT'S A FUNGUS THAT MY CHILD IS SCRATCHING FROM ONE END OF MY SMALL MOTHER WORLD TO THE OTHER.
Therein, my lovelies, resides the downfall of mass health care if not marketed correctly. I would also like to point out, to be fair, that if I had an actual herd, one option might be to take the fungusy cow out to the back forty and shoot it. This not being an option I am considering for my three-year-old. At least not yet.
Dr. W also reminded me that I have three boys. "Your point?" I inquired politely. She looked me dead in the eye. "You're going to have to get used to this. It's only the beginning. Also. Don't share towels. Towels ar moist. That's how it spreads."
That is it. We are going to need a lot of towels if I'm going to be throwing away towels after every use.
To add injustice to indignity on top of fungus and dog toilet paper in my washing machine, Matt suggested, when the substantial bill arrived for the ill-advised, fungus-related pediatrician visit, that the amount come out of MY discretionary line item in the household budget. This is how couples end up on 20/20. I mean what really did happen to her towel-ruining, cheaptastic, fungus-promoting husband in that cold, bakery-deficient pioneer town that day? (Cue spooky music.) I suggested that he take over both the fungus war with the ineffective L cream weaponry at his disposal and towel washing. Starting with beating the ass towel in the mud room on a rock.
That is the current state of the any herd. Fungusy. With a side of ass wiping.
Wait? Are you leaving? You haven't finished your wine? Why are you washing your hands? Did you just wipe your hands on your sweater? Don't you want to use the towel ... ?
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