I've been served....

First, the back story (please bear with the TMI), Ella has been struggling with a planter's wart on the bottom of her foot for months now. Key to this story is the drama that goes hand in hand with the wart. Jason initially thought it was perhaps a sliver and attempted several extractions using the point of a razor blade. Ella met this method with resistance one would typically reserve for the removal of one's leg with a jigsaw. Any and all calming methods in the parental handbook were completely unsuccessful any time Jason or I tried to even look at the bottom of her foot. Screaming, weeping and gnashing of teeth were her defensive mechanisms until we finally would just leave her alone. In addition to this extreme anxiety and according to her excruciating pain, the wart was causing her some discomfort when she walked so I took her to the doctor a few weeks ago to have it treated. Medication was applied which would then form a blister. Once the blister is removed, it should take the wart with it, in turn restoring our resident drama queen to 100%.

Yesterday afterschool, I noticed (due to the "ouchs" and "ows" quietly coming from the vicinity of the couch where Ella was carefully perched) that she was picking at the blister. Of course, it was clear she needed some assistance so Super Mom to the rescue! After a quick assessment, I determined the thin layer of skin/blister was ready to come off and one swift yank later, the blister was gone, hopefully taking with it the wart and definitely taking with it my hearing. Ella screamed bloody murder, cried as if I had just informed her she would never again be allowed to do the monkey bars and just could not pull herself together. I assured her we were done and I wouldn't touch her foot again. I inquired as to why she was crying because it just couldn't possibly hurt anymore. And finally, I requested that she retire to her room until she was able to be calm.

10-15 minutes passed and Ella had not yet surfaced. I leaned over the railing and asked her to come upstairs. When she stoically climbed the stairs, I asked her what she had been doing down there. She didn't not reply, just handed me the following note, I guess she didn't care for my bedside manner. Bless her little but really, really big and sometimes incredibly mature heart.