Chucky Reborn! and I’m Raising a Hypochondriac

I don't watch the news and I don't read the newspaper. It's a self-preservation action that I implemented years ago when I found that much of what I read and saw stuck with me for far too long. I have found, however, that I really enjoy Yahoo's news writers. Not really sure why-- it may just be sheer volume of information to choose from-- but they also do not piss me off or depress me with their added view injections.

All that might have to change though. I have found a new site that is right up my alley. It's called Comcast WEIRD and they grabbed me from the first story I read.

It was about a teenager who had been involved in an auto accident when the doll that she had in the car started to cry. The sound so startled her that she smashed into the concrete barricade on the highway and then into a Ford pickup truck.

Apparently, there is a new doll out on the market that is meant to be used in health classes to teach parenting and family... whatevers they think that class teaches. Instead of the five pound bag of flour that you had to lug around as a student they now have a baby doll that cries and wets. Inside this doll is a computer chip that records how long it took the student to attend to the "child's" needs.

Sheesh! You'd think they'd at least warn the kids first. Any kid that's ever seen the movie Child's Play is going to be scarred for life after this experience!

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Sadly, it has come to my attention that I am raising a hypochondriac. The short person in our house is totally addicted to taking medicine.

I have always appreciated the fact that my daughter is so darn good about taking medicine. When she was a baby, all I ever had to tell her was that it would make her feel better. Now, she tells me when she needs medicine-- and even which medicine she needs.

But this weekend, somewhere right after she'd asked for some Dimetapp because her nose was running and she became obsessed with walking around the house with the Little Noses Saline Nose Spray bottle up her nose, it hit me that she's an addict. Every booboo, every hurt, needs some sort of medication.

I don't want to over-react because I LIKE that she takes medicine. We might get to some point where she really needs it and I don't want to say something to her that will ingrain in her brain as a reason she shouldn't take it the next time she needs it.

So for now, the Vitamin C will double as "owie" relief. The gas drops will double as "tummy hurts" relief, and pretty soon, Flinstones Vitamins will double as something else.

And I will watch as she walks around the house squirting air from the Little Noses bottle up her nose because "her nose hurts".

I'm creating a monster, you know.

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My husband and I went down to the park so that the little person could play and we could toss the football around. I do this more because it cracks me up that I can throw better than he can, but it really gets to me that his crappy throws make it look like I can't catch the thing!

Yesterday was no exception, but to add to his throwing was a pulled muscle in my shoulder. It was one of several injuries I have gotten from weird positions I force myself into in some strange sexual act. (Okay, maybe not strange. Pretty normal actually. I'm just a klutz.)

It reminded me of this one time that I had hurt either my ankle or my knee. Pretty badly too if I recall. I think I had a brace and crutches and everything. Anyway, I had gotten my foot caught under the recliner in our living room and twisted it.

For weeks, I had been successful as passing it off as an injury from playing soccer (which I was doing at the time). Until this one day that I was at my grandparent's house when my uncle was visiting.

I had gone through the round of "How'd you get hurt questions" and was enjoying the day when my uncle came up to me and pulled me aside.

"Okay, so... how did you really get hurt."

I looked at him, I'm sure with surprise written all over my face. He was looking into my eyes and I remember thinking "this can't be good".

"I hurt myself playing soccer."

"Yeah, umm... okay. So, how did you really get hurt."

I'm turning red at this point and looking back into his eyes. There was a look of "I know this is all bullshit" totally written there.

"I uh... got my foot caught in the recliner... umm... having sex..." the last part came out meekly, and I sighed in relief as he gave a little chuckle and walked away. I remember thinking that I was glad I hadn't grown up with him because I'd have never gotten away with anything!

Thank goodness he wasn't there yesterday. I'd have had a hard time telling the truth!