My dearest blog readers,
Though I have been told there are not many of you, because people do not read, I am, nonetheless, compelled to lay my weary fingers on these ever-bouncy keys and cry out for help in this, my hour of need. It has been nigh on four weeks now since my family and I have made the necessary choice to shelter here in this mountain home and, though there have been many hardships and challenges, one stands head and shoulders above the rest.
The issue lies with my child. He is in good health and is every bit a 12-year-old in size and demeanor. His temper is good, considering his marked lack of technology and his inability to find any respite from the near-constant parenting he must now endure. In truth, he is a good child, well-mannered, of good disposition, and jovial in most regards. There is, however, one area of concern.
The child will not stop touching his face.
He is an able hand washer. He does, I must confess, at times smell like a well-travelled penny or an onion that has been too long in the sun. Try as we might to understand these odd and aromatic mysteries, alas we can come to no conclusion as to their precise whereabouts or cause. We must chalk these odiferous maladies up to age and perhaps the odd foods he chooses as midday snacks, some of which we do not see.
The face touching has, of late, reached incomprehensible proportions. It would seem to my eye that there is never a moment when his curious digits are not probing near to his nostrils or halfway down his gullet. I do not remember a time when I have seen his full visage unhampered by a glistening wrist or errant scratching of some sort. He has become a masked stranger to me; a mucus bandit who, if not connected to me by blood, I would have surely turned over to whatever penitentiary or institution could best rehabilitate such a malignant and diabolical foe.
I have considered fastening mits to his wrists, but I fear they would only become moistened with facial oils and saliva to the point that they would be more dangerous than no solution at all. I have thought to bind his arms to his side in order to quell the Caligula-like wanderings of his idle hands. We have bandied about the idea of coating his phalanges in some peppery concoction as you might a dog that licks more than manners would allow, but alas we find the method too cruel for one who seems to lack cognition or control.
There must be a solution.
And so I turn to you precious few who still fancy words in this luxurious time of flashing pictures. You brave souls who refuse to succumb to the goading light of the ever-present screen, who must seek knowledge and truth in this epoch of opinion and falsehood. Help me. How can I convince this beautiful but thoughtless preteen to cease, so I may see his whole face again? There must be some trick, some stratagem to employ that can, at last, help us light the way toward unsullied hands and proper social distance.
I am low on hope, yet I must believe there is some chance to right this mighty wrong. I await, humbly, your wisened replies. Until that blessed hour, my learned friends: be safe, stay strong, and may each new dawn find you healthy and in good cheer.
I am, as always,
Ever brave and ever yours,
Dragon Slayer and Word Monkey