Lousy Anna

My husband has poison ivy. A horrendous, disgusting, pustulating case of poison ivy.

He spent a week in Louisiana helping his mother care for her acres and acres of property and her house that had plumbing and electrical problems that, if we lived nearby, he could take care of on an ongoing basis and prevent from becoming worse and more expensive but since he doesn’t, they did, and he worked his tail off the entire time. No leisurely visit, this. Plus, he had Brady in tow, because how can one of us visit our parents without bringing a child along? We’d get laughed out of the state!

When they arrived home Brady had a spot of poison ivy on his arm, but Stewart had treated that instantly with a calamine lotion-type ointment and so it didn’t spread. However, he himself had some itchy places on his legs and arms, because that very morning he had been cutting down brush with a chainsaw wearing shorts and a T-shirt. This is after working in that yard for a week knowing there was poison ivy.

Fast forward a week and now the rash has spread and he is miserable. How do I know this? Because he has been waddling around the house covered in various salves and ointments, moaning “I’m miserable.” The children forget that he has poison ivy about 3 nanoseconds after we remind them, so they continuously jump on or hug their father despite his repeated jumping back and screeching “Don’t touch me!”

It’s heartbreaking. And pitiful. And I’m over it.

Tomorrow at the first possible opportunity I am driving him to a doctor to get him shots. Histamine blockers? Tranquilizers? Whatever will put us out of our misery.