Today, Snoochie is staying home from school. She’s not sick per say, but she does have really bad poison ivy on her ankles, hands, and face. There must be a patch of it in the back yard. I’ll need to find it and carefully weed it out of there. I really feel bad for her. She’s not just one of those people who get it and have an itchy reaction to it. She’s one of those poor souls who is ultra super allergic to it to a debilitating degree. She’s been telling me that she “looks like Freddy Krueger’s daughter.”
I, on the other hand, can roll around in patches of poison ivy, use it as toilet paper, whatever, and I have absolutely no reaction to it. I consider myself very lucky considering poor Snoochie has spent the past two days slathered in calomine lotion and doped up on benadryl.
Once, when I was a kid (around Snoochie’s age) I was walking home from the corner store with my friend Kay. As we walked along the path by the river Kay spotted a large patch of poison ivy. She immediately tore down the path, flopped on to her belly, and rolled around in the weeds. Puzzled, I asked Kay what the heck she was doing. “I’m going to get poison ivy so I can stay home from school tomorrow and spend the day with my mom!” She explained happily. I knew that my own mother would never take a day off to stay home with me, but missing school sounded good anyways. So, I joined Kay and rolled around in the poison ivy.
The next day I woke up with nothing but a few scratches. I wasn’t itchy. I wasn’t blotchy. Disappointed, I went to school. Kay was out that day. Turns out she did indeed have a reaction and needed to stay home. When she finally returned to school with raw, blotchy skin I had to admit I was glad that poison ivy doesn’t bother me one little bit.