behold the entry that will probably convince my wife that it's time to leave me
first of all, thanks to all the commenters who left helpful, hopeful, kind encouraging thoughts on strawberry marks. cheers to you! and now, an update on the situation: so our gruff pediatrician tells us, as i imagined she would, that there is absolutely nothing to worry about. we had indeed diagnosed the splotch correctly; it is in fact a little strawberry hemangioma. "oh that's nothing," she says when she sees it. "that'll be gone by the time she's two. i have seen truly terrifying strawberry marks. i have seen babies with strawberry marks on their internal organs."
um. come again?
yeah, so she tried to reassure us in her special blunt way that we have nothing to worry about, how it will go away and "i can give you a number of a dermatologist but i'll bet you my career that they won't touch a four-week-old." (i love this pediatrician, by the way. mrs nice guy isn't so sure. there are two of them in the practice: this one, the jaded cynical new york jew, and another one with an unidentifiable patrician new england accent and serious granola mellow vibe. like oil and water these two. love them.)
so just as i thought: this purple blobule is ugly and may even get uglier, but it will go away. it doesn't hurt the baby, who is too little to even realize it's there. we wait it out and it'll be gone by the time baby is three. case closed.
or is it?
mr nice guy is not afraid to be totally honest with you. he's a little vain. like a 14 year old girl he will change his outfit 7 times before leaving the house. he's a good looking gentleman. dapper, svelte, with a little pep in his step and glide in his stride. just so. (although, truth be told, for all his prideful effort he rarely looks like anything other than an upwardly mobile homeless man.) mrs nice guy, on the other hand, has no care for the corporeal. she's always impeccably appointed and gorgeous, of course. but it's accidental. she'll toss on any old thing and never look back. she scoffs at mere mortals so self-involved as to stoop to look in a mirror.
so. why is it that she is totally losing her grip on the fact that her daughter has a little purple freckle on her nose? the kid has a mark, yes--it may even grow nastier, sure--but it's painless and temporary. still, the missus is obsessed. she measures it every hour; she compares older photos with the nose today; she has charted the growth potential of the capillary cluster. she has, I SHIT YOU NOT, begun nightly swabbing the thing with water from Lourdes cathedral that her mother brought from france TWENTY FIVE YEARS AGO. my wife the agnostic has found religion in a stagnant bottle of quarter-century-old algae-infested holy water. i am totally not joking. it may not cure the strawberry mark, but at least maybe it will give her a water-borne bacterial disease. i questioned the wisdom of this and she replied "i don't care what you say, i am dabbing the outside of her nose every damn day and you can't stop me." (sorry baby, you know i love you. step away from the computer, take a deep breath and please put down that cleaver.)
she wants to rally dermatologists, plastic surgeons, sand-blasting crews, tony soprano, anyone who can take this thing off her baby. it's hard not to sympathize with mama, but i want to wait it out. let the blob run its course. it may eat her whole face, but as long as it doesn't obstruct her breathing and goes away naturally, i am happy to be father to the neighborhood freak in the interim. this is shaping up to be one of the greatest battles of all time, paling in comparison to any face-off in gettysburg, lexington, waterloo, normandy or fenway park. god help us, forget the splotch, i don't know if i will still be here when the dust settles.