Big Daddy Paul

It’s official, my son is afflicted. Some might say that he is already afflicted with anything from a bad temper to a super hot dad. Now, however, the doctor tells us he has something real: ringworm. I took him in to the doctor when I noticed he had a red splotch on his foot, and the good man looked at it immediately and said, “that’s ringworm.” I almost fainted. I was ready for athlete’s foot or a rash from his shoes being too small, but ringworm? Isn’t that something cats get? It sounds disgusting, like a disease dirty felons get from spending too much time in the hole. It doesn’t look very pleasant either.

It certainly didn’t make me feel very good when I dropped off Malcolm at school today. I tried to be nonchalant with the teachers, asking them if they had seen Malcolm’s new rain boots, commenting on the recent rain and then casually throwing in, “Oh, he’s got ringworm too. You should probably have him keep his shoes on.” The reaction was immediate and drastic.

Psst, I got foot problems!

His teacher recoiled and made a stink face reminiscent of Paris Hilton looking at a giant bucket of KFC. I laughed nervously and said, “Oh, but it should be gone soon. I think it may be contagious though, so, ya, let’s leave the shoes on.” When I said that my son may, in fact, spread his infirmity, the teacher looked at me like she was Paris Hilton after just having finished a whole bucket of chicken. I was slightly embarrassed. I quickly exited the classroom before being informed that Malcolm was not actually allowed to be present at school until his foot plague had vanished.

I did a little research and it turns out the name is completely BS. They used to think it was a worm, now they know it’s not. Whew! What is it? A fungus. Great, now my kid has a fungus. Turns out the fungus is the same fungus as athlete’s foot and jock itch, though. When I found this out, I immediately smiled because both “athlete’s foot” and “jock itch” have connotations which point to my kid being good at sports one day. Yay for us! I am actually kinda proud. I am not sure why they haven’t retired the ringworm name, but you can bet I’m not gonna use the term anymore. From now on, I’ll gladly announce, “Malcolm’s got athlete’s foot. Ya, that’s right. What’s your kid got, nerdberger syndrome?”

Amy and I are the best parents in the world (some of the time.) When we are not the best parents in the world, though, we may be the worst. Some of the things that we do, or don’t do as the case may be, are so shockingly demonstrative of poor parenting that you would think we were accustomed to raising llamas.

For Christmas this year, I got Malcolm a shaving kit. It consists of a plastic razor, an old school shaving brush and a canister of shaving cream. The “shaving cream” is fake, it actually just spews out bubbles. The canister has a picture of Batman on it, so naturally Malcolm thinks it is the most badass present I ever got him. He loves to shave and enjoys the set every time he takes a bath. He is quite thorough, even shaving his forehead and between his eyebrows. I take great pleasure in this, because it’s really the only way for me to get him to put soap of any sort on his face. On paper, it was a brilliant parenting move.

My brilliance was counteracted by my subsequent failure to warn Malcolm about the dangers of real razors. The thought never even crossed my mind, so it was pretty shocking to find Malcolm in our bathtub last week with a thick stream of blood running from his bottom lip to his chest. Evidently, he resumed his shaving routine with Amy’s razor. I didn’t hide my emotion very well and afterwards had to explain to Malcolm what, “HOLY SHIT!” means. After cleaning off the river of blood from his body, I belatedly gave him the lecture on why real razors are dangerous and how his plastic razor is safe. From the amount of blood that he lost, I think he got my point. I then apologized for being a bad dad. Sometimes, I don’t think I’m even fit to raise a llama.