So there I was.
Staring at my four-year-old son’s *pecker.
I had just raced to the bathroom after hearing my Chinese wife blood-curdling scream:
“WHAT IS THAT???”
We were at Mom’s trailer house outside Eufaula, OK.
The missus had just dried Junior after his bath and spotted a black spot on his pecker.
And the black spot was mobile.
Hence her panic.
Now, being the Dad, and upon hearing the scream, I crashed Rambo-like into the bathroom, absolutely dripping with adrenaline.
I expected to find a spider, or possum or, ack, even a snake that needed killing.
But I was not prepared to see Junior, standing there in his birthday suit, proud as could be, as he and his Mom stared at his dangly bits.
His Mom in horror, and Junior with great pride, because he was four.
At the age of four, there is nothing in the world that compares to the joy a boy child gets from his pecker.
OK, I know that does not change much for about the next 70 years.
But four is a special time in a boy’s life, when he begins to form a life-long relationship with his pecker.
So, anyways, Junior is standing there so cute, naked as a jaybird, gazing over his little tummy at his pecker.
His Mom is next to him. Her face is frozen in panic.
She. Is. Not. Breathing.
Not at all.
For probably the first time in her adult life, this woman of immense talent and control, does not know what to do.
Hence her primal scream.
Now, Rule No. 1 of being a Dad is — You Size Up the Situation and Take Appropriate Action.
I saw there was a tick on my son’s pecker, so I fainted.
I innately knew that I had to appear calm and in control, so that Junior did not end up with some terrible Oedipal complex.
So I took a deeeeep breath, and advised, “It’s OK son.”
It stressed with 100% assurance that it was OK and it would continue to be OK.
Everything was JUST FINE.
But what I wanted to do was scream:
“AAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!! THERE IS A BLOOD-SUCKING TICK ON MY SON’S PECKER AND I DO NOT KNOW WHAT TO DO!!! AAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUGGGGGGGGGHHHH!!!!!”
But I put on my game face and again said, “It’s OK, son.”
I then performed CPR on my wife, because she had not breathed for a long while by now and her lips were turning blue.
After I got her breathing again, I dipped a Q-tip into soapy water.
Then gently — EVER SO GENTLY — because my son’s future family life and my future grandchildren were hanging in the balance — I touched the tick.
And, being a tick, he did not like that.
So his body started to sort of run around in circles, while his head was still embedded in my son’s pecker.
(This blog post will post pause momentarily, as the writer takes a very deeeep breath and attempts to slow down his heart rate, because, even after 20 years, this still rates as an all-time Dad dilemma… Whew. OK, we are back.)
Plan A — the Q-tip — did not work, so we went to plan B — tweezers.
Now, if you grow up in Oklahoma, you know that a tick has three tiny thingees on his head.
If you yank the tick out while its head is buried in flesh, the head or one of the thingees will remain and cause an infection.
So, even though I was not sure WHAT TO DO, I knew for certain their would be NO YANKING.
I tapped the tick’s bottom with the tweezers, and his body just ran in circles, still embedded.
If this tick had been on my leg, I would have lit a cigarette and carefully moved the lit end toward the tick until the heat made him so uncomfortable that he backed out.
Even if this had killed the tick on my leg, I could have made a tiny cut and removed the dead tick’s head, no problem.
But this tick was not my leg.
This tick was embedded in Junior’s Johnson.
And the words “tiny incision” and “Junior’s Johnson” will never, ever be used in the same sentence.
At least not on my damned watch!
So I went to Plan C — which involved drinking heavily and letting my mother take over since, by then, she had joined us in the tiny bathroom.
OK, not true.
There was no booze within reach, so I got a new Q-tip, soaked it in alcohol, then dabbed the tick.
And that did the trick.
The tick made a run for it, and I grabbed that little bastard with the tweezers.
Vengeance was mine.
I transferred him to my hook and squashed him using about 10,000 pounds of stress-relieving pressure.
With Mission Accomplished!, I announced, “Everything is OK, son!”
I think Junior was sort of disappointed that everyone in the trailer house would no longer be standing around looking at his pecker, because in his young life, this had been a Red Letter Day.
At this point, his Mom began to breathe again and went into Mom-mode, gently dabbing antiseptic cream on the affected area, and getting her four year old ready for bed.
I went into the living room and absolutely collapsed into the recliner.
I felt like a tire that had had all the air let out of it.
But after an adult beverage or two, I had regained enough strength to record the results for history:
DAD AND JUNIOR’S PECKER — 1
STUPID DEAD TICK — 0
(*I have been asked by one of the parties intimately involved to stress that the pecker at the center of this story made a full and complete recovery.)