The Stitch

I have a stye. It hurts. I complain a lot because of it. In fact, as I am typing this, I have a warm, wet washcloth tied in place over my eye with a hairband, and a sad, droopy frown.

Brian is calling me "Ole One-Eye."

It's very painful - so painful that I actually went to the doctor. I don't go to the doctor unless I have a broken bone or a baby is trying to claw its way out of me. So, you *know* it hurts.

Doc looked at it and said, "Yep. It's a stye. Put hot washcloths on it, here's a prescription, and good luck. If it gets worse, call an ophthalmologist because there's nothing more we can do." So I paid $40 for a tube of goopy glorified Vaseline, and thunk about the imminent phone call. . . .

I'm dreading telling Mom because I know what she's going to ask,

"What were you doing peeing in the road?"

You see, when we were growing up, Mom used to tell us that you would get styes in your eyes if you ever peed in the road. So, that night in 8th grade when I was rebelling against my parents and I peed in the road - yeah, it finally caught up with me and now I have a stye.

Now that I'm an adult (sort of), I look back on all the stuff Mom used to tell us and wonder what the Hell she was thinking when she opened her mouth and told us these nightmarish things.

"If you play with your belly button, it will come unscrewed and your butt will fall off."

It kept us from playing with our navels until we were like 16. Then we realized that "DUH, you can't unscrew a bellybutton with your FINGER!" And then I got it pierced. My butt never fell off. So there.

She also told us that if we didn't wear underpants we would get worms.

Yeah. No words, eh?

Here's a fun story for you: We were obsessive little underpants-wearers because of that "Mom-Inspired Factoid." One day our babysitter, Peg, who was 17, BEYOND cool, and very much into the hippie scene of the 1970s, came to "hang" with us while Mom and Dad had a date night. Peg was doing her homework from some terribly interesting-high-school-ish brown paper bag-wrapped textbooks, while we watched in awe. She dropped her pen and it rolled across the floor. She got up and as she bent over to retrieve it, Shannon and I gasped in utter horror.

"Ummmmm, Peggy, aren't you wearing any underwear????" Shannon asked.

"Underwear? What's that?" Peg joshed without even cracking a smile.

Shannon, in a panic, told Peg very excitedly, "You're going to get WORMS! Did you know that??? WORMS!" As she sputtered her lecture, I flew away from the table, knowing that if I moved quickly enough, the worms wouldn't get me. Shannon was totally on her own.

I still wear underwear - religiously, and I can't stomach the thought of wearing thongs, Nosirreeee. It's full-sized white cotton granny britches for me. When I wear my hip-hugger jeans and bend over, yes, my ganny undies climb all the way up to the middle of my back. It's VERY attractive.

So, as I look back on all the "Mom-isms" from my childhood, I wonder how I can find ways to turn my kiddo into a hypochondriac/thong-fearing/navally-obsessed individual, or if I should open her world to NEW ways to freak her world - and at the same time, make mine better.

"If you don't keep the floor mopped, you'll get a goiter."

"Children who don't wash dishes every night might go blind. Clean dishes really do help you see better."