Friday, September 15, 2006


One of my sons developed a rash on his upper thigh. He was told by our family doctor to apply Fucidin Cream on the rash twice a day after showering. Then he was to cover the affected area with gauze. Last night, he did as he was told. He struggled to get the tape to stick, but he refused my help.

This morning, he took a shower again and did the same thing. From the kitchen across the washroom, I hollered, “Do you need help?” “No!” was his instant reply.

“Where’s the rash?” I asked. “Is it on your crouch?”

He didn’t answer. Instead he started snickering. What’s so funny about that rash? I thought.

“Mom… It’s crotch, not crouch,” he finally said, still laughing.

“Oh, yeah. Crrr-otch, crrr-ouch, they sound alike.” I tried to save face.

“No,” he quickly answered back. Then, teasing, he said, “Mom, you should make your own dictionary.” He thought I had uttered enough malapropism to start my own book. He was very amused.

Riding along, I said, “Crouch is when you have an ouch on your crotch.” There’s my first malapropistic entry.

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