My middle son is a picker, picker of scabs that is. Whenever he gets a ding, scratch, dent, or otherwise minor abrasion, he's addicted to it's welfare. He constantly looks at it and applies new bandaids on the hour, every hour. If it's not covered, he's sure to touch or pick at it, usually 'til it bleeds and then he tries to hide it from the all knowing Mommazilla. But Mommazilla knows all and sees all...besides, she has an excellent informant that supplies her with a steady supply of kidlet information. She goes by code name, Taterbug, and relishes in the fact that she can regularly spill the beans on her brothers to a very attentive audience.

My little whistleblower came to be the other day, telling me that C-dub "had the hives." I don't really know where she's heard about hives nor do I really think she knows what they actually are; but she was convinced that C-dub was afflicted. After much begging, pleading and eventually prying of his little arms, C-dub allowed me to inspect the problem area on his stomach. With all my mommy wisdom and experience in the area of itchiness, I diagnosed him with a minor case of poison oak; more than likely caused by the monster truck rally he held in our front yard forest grove. I never told C-dub the name of his rash for fear that he wouldn't understand the concept behind the name. He tends to be a "Paranoid Pete" so the less he knew, the better.

While he screamed and cried big crocodile tears, I applied some salve to help his rash dry out. I also told him that if he picked at it, his fingers would melt off. No, not a shining mommy moment but it kept his grubby little fingers from scratching and making things worse with infection. I assured Taterbug that he did not have "the hives" but she wasn't so convinced and she scowled her disapproval at me. She then wrapped her little arm around C-dub and pulled him out to the livingroom while I cleaned up my nursing supplies.

I heard the two of them a short time later, speaking in hushed voices. I knew it wasn't a talk that they wanted me to hear because Taterbug kept glancing towards my bedroom while I spied on their conversation.

Taterbug: C-dub, Mom doesn't really wanna tell ya but you got the hives. You got'em bad. Real bad.
C-dub: What? No I don't! Mom said I don't! I don't want da hives!
Taterbug: Your gonna have to get a lot of medicine. Yucky tastin' medicine.
C-dub: What?! He starting to cry and I'm getting torked. I don't wanna drinkkkk medicinnnnneeeee!

C-dub then runs back into my room, crying, asking me essentially how long he had to live in this world since he had "da hives." I immediately called Taterbug in to give her a little lecture, some information, and to make her right her wrong.

Mommazilla: C-dub! Calm down, buddy. You don't have the hives, just a little case of Poison Oak, K?
C-dub: Rubbing his eyes and the big salty tears away. Poyzin Oak?
Mommazilla: Yeah, just a little rash. Mommy gets it all the time (but Mommazilla didn't tell him that she normally gets a huge shot in the butt and a round of steroids that would make Awnold blush, whenever she even looks at that hateful weed).
Taterbug: You can see Taterbug's wheels spinning and the impish grin on her her face. She's trying hard not to say anything but then she lets it out: Oh great, C-dub! It's worse than I thought! You got poisoned!

With that final note, Taterbug and her smart little mouth were sent to their room while C-dub and I spent some quality time on the 'Net looking at various pictures of Poison Oak and learning more about his ailment. It's nice to have a witty child but not when you have a hypochondriac for a sibling.

Remember, leaves of three, leaf them be.