Consider Yourself Warned (i.e. TMI)

I’m having a terrible day.

I have an enormous pimple.  It’s the angry, bulbous kind that lurks just beneath the surface, taunting you, yet just out of reach.

It’s killing me.

I’m 42.  So, in my opinion, this should not be happening.  Wrinkles, yes.  This, no.

I can FEEL it.  It weighs a ton.  It stings and throbs and when I smile my face feels like it will crack open on one side.  I accidentally swiped my cheek with my hand last night and woke myself up in tears.

It’s THAT bad.

Meems was a little too fascinated by it this morning.  I tried to disguise it first; but it’s quite like disguising a bull in a china shop.  It can’t be done.  Unless you’re Peeta Mellark.

I am not.

“Mommy, you have a…OMG what IS that?” Getting all up close in my face with her face scrunched up in horror/disgust/concern/terror.

“DON’T TOUCH IT!” Panicked scream.

Widened eyes and a gasp, followed by “I won’t tell the boys.”  She understands the humiliation.

She’s 9.

I reiterate, it’s that bad.

At the bus stop, she nervously/worriedly glances my way several times.  Strangely, there is not much conversation there today...

Kids, you will get these.  Yours will be about  hormones and, Will, because you forget about soap when you shower.  I suspect mine is about the fact that someone’s sweaty little forehead was glued to my cheek for hours the other night (#kidsaregermfactoriesbutliketosnugglewhentheyhavebaddreamsandwhocanresistthat? OK so I don’t really know how #### work.).

Another of the joys of motherhood?  Off to call the dermatologist…