Get My Room Ready

2004-08-03
8:31 p.m.

Anyone who knows my husband knows why the following conversation scares me:

This morning, approximately 8:30 a.m., between Oldest Son and me.

OS: Mom, I think I'm getting too old.

Me: Why?

OS: Because my foot hurts when I walk on it, and my neck hurts when I turn it, and my finger hurts. And I'm going to need another band-aid on it, too.

Me: (Shooting myself, putting myself out of misery right now.)

Then this afternoon, when I picked him up:

OS: Mom, my foot doesn't hurt anymore, but my neck still does. And my finger doesn't hurt real bad, but I have a headache.

Me: (Just say nothing, maybe he'll stop talking about it if I ignore it.)

OS: Actually, I'm not sure if my stomach hurts more or my head hurts more. (Nothing that three Arby's roast beef sandwiches couldn't and didn't fix, though.)

This hypochondria started at such a young age with this one, there's no way it could be anything but genetics. But now he's learning from a master, too.

Pray for me. I'm not saving for retirement, I'm saving to be locked away in a rubber room one day.

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