As challenging a life as I sometimes think I have, it’s nothing compared to the torturous turmoil and ceaseless suffering endured by my 6-year-old-son.
Each morning, upon rising from 10 or possibly even only 9 hours of sleep, he is chronically faced with the devastating psychological trauma of an iPad that was not charged the night before and therefore only possesses 4% of its battery life — hardly enough energy to power through a game of solitaire, never mind a round of Contest of Champions or even Flappy Goat. Even more humiliating, he is usually blamed for the oversight of not plugging in the iPad and must defend his honor. Loudly.
My son must survive throughout the week on an exponentially smaller wardrobe than the rest of the family due to a debilitating ailment that prevents him from putting away his clothes. This condition causes a category of blindness that only affects his ability to see articles of clothing on the floor, although visualization of other objects, such as Legos or video game controllers, is not affected. Tragically, there’s no cure or treatment currently available.
Each day, my son must deal with the tremendous stress of being forced to “eat healthfully,” precisely defined in our house as three meals that don’t all include chocolate milk. The agony of being obliged to consume raw carrots is written across his furrowed brow in unspoken sorrow, unless it’s being spoken at full volume and with a slight nasally whine.
Constant physical issues plague my son. Nearly every day, and sometimes hourly, my son must tolerate random aches and pains that seem to materialize without rhyme or reason. Whether it’s a sudden twinge in his pinkie toe or an agonizing but somewhat vaguely described popping feeling in his ear, my son’s only recourse is to provide a detailed and regularly updated report on his latest series of discomforts, punctuated intermittently with vocal validation of his pain, such as “Ow! Ow!”
Thankfully, most of these problems seem to respond immediately to chocolate ice cream. Occasionally, my son will experience violent fits, which tend to occur immediately after being asked to set the table or sort socks. He’ll temporarily lose the ability to communicate except in loud shrieks and exclamations of negativity. Sometimes his state will devolve even further to include writhing and flailing on the floor. This corporeal trauma only seems to abate after desperate pleas and negotiations concerning television privileges. By that time, my son is so physically exhausted, he must drag himself up the stairs while moaning and complaining noisily. Poor fellow.
My son is cursed with a vivid imagination and curious nature. He is compelled to inquire about a host of random and trivial subjects which may or may not include a discussion on the potential martial arts skills of adolescent reptiles, a post-mortem on all the flavors of soda he has ever tasted, or a demand for the number of minutes he has been alive. Ironically, requests for information about him are typically answered with “I don’t want to tell you.”
My son’s remarkable resilience despite the brutal torments he must tolerate day in and day out is truly inspiring to me and everyone else in the household. Despite all his hardships, he typically ends each grueling day with a brave smile — as long as that day ends with chocolate ice cream…for medicinal purposes, of course.
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