Yesterday we were on our way to the beach when Eva started complaining that there was something in her eye.
“Maybe if you rub it hard enough, it’ll come out,” I suggested. (That’s right, when the eye becomes irritated, you should vigorously rub it with your fist. Look, no one gave me a license to be a parent.)
A minute later, her whining became more panicked. “It’s burning,” she wailed. “IT’S BURNING!”
I glanced in the rearview mirror. Her eyes were squinted shut, and she was rubbing them so hard I thought she might gouge them clear out of her head.
“It’s going to be OK,” I soothed. “We’re not even a mile away from the beach. As soon as we get there, we’ll wash your eye out with water. Try to keep your hands away from your face!”
But she couldn’t hear me over her shrieking. It was a sound that could have shattered every window in the minivan and surrounding traffic.
Tyler sat next to her with both hands clamped over his ears. “Maybe you should call a fireman,” he said. “I think Eva’s eyeball is on fire.”
As the screaming became more desperate, I realized she couldn’t hold out another mile. I pulled over, hustled her out of her booster seat, twisted the cap off a bottle of water and splashed it into her eye.
She screamed like I just threw acid in her face.
A policeman who was overseeing a road job heard the commotion over the machinery. He hopped into his cruiser and pulled alongside us.
“Is she OK?” he asked.
In all honesty, I had no idea how to answer. You see, my daughter is a drama queen. I can’t even remove a hangnail from her fingertip without her carrying on like I’m amputating an entire limb. I’ve been at this parenting thing for over a half decade, but I still haven’t figured out how to differentiate between one child in trouble and another who’s crying wolf.
After a grueling minute of more ear-splitting, blood-curdling screeching, the officer called in an ambulance.
And during that time, I decided this time, my girl was for real. Just last week I paid half a grand to repair a “non-healing corneal ulcer” in my dog’s eye after she merely poked it in the woods. I’m no optometrist, but I do know when it comes to eyes, you can’t take any chances. And as I watched my little girl run out of tears and grope around blindly in terror, I imagined what it would be like to raise a child who was blind.
By the time the ambulance came roaring up the street, I was half hysterical myself, and I didn’t realize her screaming had dissipated. Two emergency medical technicians came bursting out of their vehicle and rushed to the scene.
Just then, Eva pulled her hand away from her eyes and smiled. “No more ouch!” she announced.
When all was said and done, I decided it was most likely the sunscreen on her hands that got into her eyes, which would cause a slight burning sensation. In my infinite wisdom, I’d decided to apply it ahead of time and doused her from head to toe, right down to her fingertips.
And that, my friends, is what we call town taxpayers’ money well spent.
