My Son
by Peter L Oughton
I love my son
dearly, although I am bound to admit that my
verbal reaction upon seeing him moments after his
birth (“Good heavens, he’s bloody ugly!”)
pleased neither the midwifery staff nor, indeed,
my wife.
In his favour, I do have to say that he certainly
improved for a bath and a hair wash and, I am
pleased to report, developed into a handsome chap.
At the risk of sounding like the stereotypically
proud father, one of the things that I have
always loved about my son is his inquisitive
nature, which manifested itself at an early age.
Let me give you an example of this
inquisitiveness.
Many years ago, when my son was around six years
of age, my wife and I took him to the coast for
the day and, most unfortunately, a bee stung him
right in the middle of his chest. The sting
developed a pinkish hue and, indeed, at a
distance, could even be mistaken for a third
nipple.
You may be shocked to learn that I did consider
changing his name to Scaramanga but, by somewhat
painful means, my wife dissuaded me from that
potential course of action. With the benefit of
hindsight, that was probably a wise move on her
part!
Anyway – what to do about this beastly sting?
Fortunately, I had read about bee stings and how,
in an emergency, one might seek to alleviate
their effect. Accordingly, I very carefully
removed the embedded stinger, sucked out the
horribly bitter venom and then dabbed the
affected area with tea from a flask, which acted
as a makeshift astringent.
Job done – one seemingly contented son and
one mightily relieved father!
Shortly thereafter, I was concerned to see my son
looking very detached and thoughtful, and
wondered what might possibly be wrong. Was he not
satisfied with my amazing piece of first aid?
In response to my enquiry, he asked if it would
be OK for him to pose a question about bee stings.
I assured him that I would do my utmost to answer
his question, provided, of course, that it did
not defeat my limited grasp of the subject.
He looked at me intently and said, “Well,
after the bee stung me, you pulled out the
stinger and sucked out the venom.”
“Yes, that’s quite correct”, I
replied, wondering what could be coming next.
After a brief pause, and accompanied by a look of
mild embarrassment, he said, “So what would
have happened if the bee had stung me on my willy?”
I thought for few moments, and then, with
measured paternal gravitas, replied,
“Well, my boy, let me assure you that that
is when you find out who your true friends really are.”
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