Aside from the fact that people are still trying to blow up planes, and this time with such materials as will necessitate my tasting my own breastmilk going through security to prove it's not an incendiary device, I have found yet more reasons to avoid contact with the outside world.
1. Bug bites. Before Ethan was a little peapod in my belly, I had some sort of anti-bug force field surrounding me which prevented me from being bitten by mosquitos or bugs of any kind. I swear, I had citronella coursing through my veins or something. It was fabulous--while those around me were swatting unsuccessfully at the hungry little buzzers and welting up under the onslaught, I sat undisturbed in the summer twilights, sipping my beer, not a blood-sucker in sight.
Fast-forward to this past weekend, where I spent both Saturday and Sunday evenings outside with friends. Apparently pregnancy does something to one's body chemistry (go figure--as if the horrifyingly expanding butt isn't enough of a slap in the face); if my body were a mosquito restaurant, it would have been sporting a neon sign, flasing the words, "Under New Management". Whatever went on in my body during pregnancy turned me into an irresistible culinary temptation for those disgusting little pests. I am awash in little red itchy welts.
I cannot adequately explain what a shock to the system bug bites are to a person unaccustomed to being an all-you-can-eat buffet to mosquitos. There isn't enough hydrocortizone cream or calomine lotion to take away the urge to scratch. There are about four bites on my left foot and at least ten times a day I am tempted to chew off my own foot at the ankle to get some relief.
And on top of my own agony, yesterday as I was admiring my napping little E, I noticed a tell-tale red bump on his otherwise perfectly soft and kissable forehead. A BUGBITE ON MY BABY???!! OH NO, THEY DIDN'T!! My poor little man, accosted by those heartless blood-sucking fiends!!! He, of course, shows no sign of even being aware of its existence and he certainly isn't Itchy McScratcherson like me, but STILL! A BUGBITE ON MY BABY, PEOPLE!!
When I'm done over-reacting, I'm sure I'll notice the vampire-like speed with which his skin bounces back and is once again bite-free. I am amazed by how quickly babies heal from scratches, acne and bug bites. Ethan can wake up with a patch of acne that on a teenager would require two weeks and an entire bottle of pro-activ to combat it; by lunchtime that patch of skin is again as smooth as....well, as smooth as his butt.
Speaking of his butt....I come to reason #2 why I should just stay home....
2. It wasn't me; it was the kid! My son has quite the talent. He passes gas like it was his job. He could enter a fraternity sponsered farting contest and put the beer-guzzling meat-heads to shame. He is good. In both volume and duration, it is a marvel; I had no idea babies were capable of such adult sounding bodily functions. It reminds me of that adorable one-toothed, diapered baby in "Who Framed Roger Rabbit", who looks so cute and cuddly when the camera is rolling and the second they shout, "Cut!", he is swearing like a sailor and smoking a cigar. That's my boy.
It's funny, but not so funny when you are, oh, I don't know, say, in Target, pushing the baby through the photo album aisle when he decides to let one rip. Especially when that aisle is full of people. People who couldn't possibly believe that the raging fart just ripped could come from that adorable little baby boy in the cart. People who believe it came from that vile. disgusting. shameless woman pushing the cart. Even when you smile at baby and say, "Goodness, little man! Excuse you!", they look at you like they aren't quite sure they believe you; like you might be the type of person who would pass loud, rambling gas in public and then blame it on an innocent, sweet infant. For shame....
So, to avoid the swarming mosquitos and the giant Scarlet "F", I think it's probably best if I stay inside until bug season is over and the bulk of winter clothing muffles my son's butt music...