Posts Tagged "weed"

Poison Ivy (Part III) | 10 Reasons to Avoid Poison Ivy

Dear Kid,

In case you haven’t been paying attention, I have poison ivy. On my face.

Dear Mom,

My poison ivy is getting much better. No need to worry. Really.

Love, Me

It is not the Most Fun Thing I’ve Ever Done. Thank heavens for prednisone. To be fair, it’s not the worst, but it definitely ranks among Things I’d Prefer Not To Do Again.

In case you were contemplating something involving our three-leaf friend, I’ve put together a list of 10 reasons to change your mind. I’m just that kind of a mom.

10 Reasons Not to Play with Poison Ivy

  1. It itches. A lot.
  2. Poison ivy bumps and blisters are not attractive. To anyone.
  3. Batman will come after you.
  4. Urushiol, which is the oil in poison ivy that causes all those lovely bumps and blisters, is extremely stable and can stay active for years. Many years.
  5. Airborne poison ivy is extremely dangerous (it doesn’t exactly fly, but can go through the air with the greatest of ease with a little help from a lawn mower, weed wacker, or just from falling vines).
  6. 50% of the urushiol that hits your skin will be absorbed in 10 minutes.
  7. Once urushiol is absorbed into your skin, you can wash all you like but it won’t help at all.
  8. Some people don’t have a reaction to poison ivy; you’re probably not one of them.
  9. People who know how to do it correctly can harvest the sap from poison ivy and turn it into a beautiful lacquer finishing agent. You’re not one of those people either.
  10. It itches. A lot. A whole lot.

Love, Mom

Just in case you missed the beginning…

Poison Ivy (Part I) | More Than a Batman Character

Poison Ivy (Part II) Take Your Face to Work Day

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Poison Ivy | More Than a Batman Character

Dear Kid,

I, your mother, have poison ivy.

On my face.

On. My. Face.

I washed my hands carefully. Which explains why it is obviously hubby's fault I have poison ivy on my face. DearKidLoveMom.comIt is not the Worst Case of Poison Ivy Ever. I know this because My Friend the Internet kindly provided photos of some of the Worst Cases and they are Not attractive. At all.

So far, no one has run screaming from my face. At least, not more than usual.

Still, I am not going to include a photo of my face because A. I don’t like having my photo taken in the best of times and B. This is not the Best of Times.

Also, I am too busy to take a photo. I am busy trying Not To Scratch and there are lots of things in the world that are easier–like not thinking about pink buffalo (made you think about them).

Here’s what happened. I was weeding (as I told you). The puppy was napping in the sun.

Dad: Want gloves?
Me: Go away
Dad: Okey Dokey

Dad: You’re getting munched by mosquitoes
Me: Go away
Dad: Okey Dokey

Me: This vine I just pulled out kinda looks like poison ivy
Me: But it has 5 leaves over there
Me: The rest of it has 3 leaves. In an alternating pattern
Me: But there are 5 leaves over there so it CAN’T be poison ivy
Me: I’ll wash my hands really carefully anyway

So you can see that it is obviously Dad’s fault.

When you have P.I. on your face you put the goopy anti-itch stuff on your face. Which then dries and feels good. And then starts to crack and peel which doesn’t feel good and looks like your face is falling off. Again, not attractive.

I itch. Which is making me grumpy. Clearly Dad’s fault.

Love, Mom

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The Puppy Writes About Mom and Weeds

Dear Kid,

Some people can pull weeds without getting dirty. Mom isn’t one of them.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Last night, Mom came home with a Determined Attitude. She was Determined to do some weeding, which was fine with me because I got to go Out. I figured we’d just be out for a little bit because it was time for my dinner.

Since Mom-wanting-to-weed is a pretty rare event, Dad came outside with us. According to Mom, we have more weeds per square foot than any other home in Ohio and she decided she’d rather be in second place.

Mom attacked the weeds with all the grace of a rampaging hippo. She dug out dirt. She dug out worms (which are boring). She dug out rocks (which are even more boring). She even dug out a bunch of weeds. I lay down in the grass to watch the events and wait for dinner.

Then she started in on a Really Big Weed. She gave it A Look which should have withered it, but weeds aren’t known for being particularly smart and it stayed leafy green. She used a bunch of Bad Words and a lot of dirt went flying.

Dad told her it was a tree. Mom said it was a weed. Then she gave Dad A Look. Dad should have withered (or at least stopped talking).

Dad: You know its root system goes down at least a foot or two right? You’re not going to be able to get it out with a hand trowel.

Oh, Dad, Dad. Not the right thing to say. I stayed safely on the grass watching the rest of the world and wondering when someone was going to feed me.

Mom continued to dig.

I have pointed out in the past that We Are Not Supposed to Dig, but apparently there are different rules for weeds.

After a while, Mom said: Do you think this is important?

Dad: That’s a scary sounding question. What is it?
Mom: I have no idea.
Dad: Is it metal? Leather?
Mom: Not metal. Don’t think it’s leather.
Dad: Well don’t hurt yourself with it. It’s not important whether it comes out of the ground

Oh, Dad, Dad. Not the right thing to say.

Mom gave the Thing a Look. The Thing wasn’t that smart, because it didn’t do anything. Then she started digging again.

After a long, long time (my tummy was rumbling really loudly—I could hardly hear myself think about dinner), Dad walked over to where Mom was still digging.

Dad: Would you like some help?
Mom: Yes, please

Dad smashed through the rest of the root system and the tree weed fell down. The Thing stayed in the ground (it didn’t sniff like anything interesting). And I finally got dinner.

Mom went off muttering that the only good reason to deal with weeds is to get a blog topic but she was too tired to write.

Dad pointed out that she had a lot of dirt on the back of her legs.

Oh, Dad, Dad. Not the right thing to say.

Love, Your Favorite Puppy

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