The Things We Nourish
I think we might have bedbugs but that’s about as much energy as I want to devote to the idea. The thought that tiny crustaceans-like creatures crawl out from my mattress to nibble on my skin isn’t exactly an incentive to slip into bed at night. I’ve been dealing with the potential bedbug infestation the way I deal with extended family gatherings, dental cleanings, and other unpleasantries which is by not thinking about it.
So far the approach has served me pretty well. I’ve been actively ignoring the possibility that we have a bedbug infestation for about a month now despite a nasty set of bites in my right armpit and a few other places. In addition to a grouping just over my coccyx, there’s a bite in my belly button that is particularly irritating.
What kind of animal bites a belly button? I wonder and then, just as quickly answer, probably a hungry one. Then there’s the one on the knuckle of my index toe that makes even less sense.
Of course, the things feeding on me don’t necessarily care what — or where — they’re eating. Given the difference in scale between the two of us, an armpit or a toe looks pretty much the same to a bedbug and probably doesn’t taste much different than a belly button or the top of my butt.
I’m also not completely convinced that bedbugs are to blame. Don’t get me wrong. They’re insidious little bastards but neither I nor anyone in my family has traveled since November. I’ve never thought of bedbugs as having much in the way of restraint when it comes to feeding and the idea that they’d wait a few months month to before tucking into my coccyx stretches the bounds of credulity.
COVID might be to blame. Everyone in my house, all three of us, came down with it at the beginning of January which was not how I would have chosen to celebrate the New Year. I researched COVID rashes for a brief — but all too thorough — five minutes and, while the rashes I saw didn’t look exactly like whatever my body was playing host to, they didn’t exactly not look like them either. By the end of the week, I didn’t have any new welts so I mostly stopped thinking about them which worked out quite well until I came down with a fresh set of bites — in my other armpit and on top of my foot — about a month later.
My daughter noticed them a few nights ago as I had just gone to bed.
“Mom, you’ve got to get in here!” she screeched, “Have you seen Dad’s armpit?”
It was an odd question. My wife and I have been married for almost twenty years and, while I’m sure she has seen my armpit at some point during that time, I couldn’t recall if she’d ever given it a good look.
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About the Author
derekbremer Prior to his life as a stay at home father Derek spent more than a decade performing public relations and marketing functions for financial consulting firms and found the job to be precisely as exciting as it sounds. When not tending to his wife or daughter Derek enjoys subjecting the public to his unique take on fatherhood, travel and animal husbandry. He has been published in Scary Mommy, Sammiches and Psych Meds, The Good Men Project, HowToBeADad, Red Tricycle, RAZED, HPP and the Anthology "It's Really Ten Months Special Delivery: A Collection of Stories from Girth to Birth.
