Mosquito Bites

This is an excerpt from an essay I'm working on.

My mom used to call them mosquito bites. Two little puncture wounds three-quarters of the way up my torso. When I was little I would run naked around the house before bath time. Mom would chase me, at first laughing for the sake of my giddy body galloping around the staircase, past the TV, down the hallway by the kitchen, picking up the pace as I darted past the waterfall erupting from the bathroom. After several minutes of chasing a reckless nude child she would stop, dig her heels into the dingy brown carpet, grasping her hips with her still sudsy hands and sigh loudly. I just giggled, every time. I’d scream when she’d reach for my squirming body and mom would say, “Shh! The neighbors will think something’s wrong!”

Like the time she tried to get a splinter out of my foot. We’d been at my grandparents’ boathouse on lake Fontana and in yet another stubborn rant I refused to wear flip-flops on the wooden deck, along with a bulky neon life jacket and greasy sunscreen. That ensued a whole different chase-scene.  On our return home I discovered a tiny wooden sliver on the bottom of my shriveled left foot. This time I was too scared to run. If I put too much pressure on the splinter it might just pop it’s way out the top of my foot! I didn’t know which was scarier, Mom coming at me with a needle and tweezers or a long sharp twig sprouting from my flesh. Once I was restrained on the couch, sobbing mercilessly, mom examined my wound. But every time she’d get close to my wiggling toes I’d howl louder than Vera Miles in Psycho. “Honey! The neighbors!” my mom shrieked. “They’ll be calling the cops to report a murder if you don’t hush!” I think the line that got me most was “Do you want to be taken away with social services? If they think I’m hurting you, your dad and I may never see you again!” A bit extreme, but it worked. I boo-hooed into the sofa pillow until the nasty surgery was complete. I sure had a set of lungs in that little body. The evening ended with another naked chase on the Davis-500. 

I had nothing to be ashamed of and if anyone had walked through the threshold of our front door, on the sidelines of my route, I’m sure I would have run right up and greeted them, bare-assed and grinning as if I’d just won a race. I was the princess in my own personal nudist colony. Whether my mother liked it or not. 

***

When I was in sixth grade I became aware of a freckle between my slightly larger but still quite tiny mosquito bites. A scowl crossed my face each time I saw it, bulging, staring at me from the valley of my chest. I’d inch my finger toward it, poke and prod the little brown dot, and then push it furiously into my body. Maybe if I squashed the thing it might just disappear. These days brought a more modest era to my youth. I started locking the door when I went in the bathroom, breaking one of my mother’s cardinal rules: No locking/slamming doors. I decided to hide the brown speck in all circumstances. First and foremost: bathing suits could not reveal the hideous birth defect. Thus all previously worn bikinis must be disposed of and new ones purchased. Mom couldn’t understand my proclamation. When I attempted to explain my predicament she simply cut me off. “Well let me see it then.” I cowered back in terror, stretching my t-shirt down to my pants pockets. No way. It was too embarrassing to reveal, didn’t she understand? That was the problem! She made the viable argument that no new bathing suits shall inherit my future without her first assessing the situation. It was May; I had no choice. She responded with something along the lines of, Oh that little thing! I smacked her hand away from my bare chest and huffed and puffed to the corner. It was a big deal to me! But so many things were for a pre-pubescent young girl.