Campho-Phenique...It *is* Magic

When you were growing up, what was that one thing your mother always told you would fix anything? In our house, it was Campho-Phenique. That magical tiny green glass bottle, filled with slippery fluid. I have a love/hate relationship with its noxious odor and burn.

When we were kids, whatever happened, no matter what hurt, Mom sent us to the cabinet behind the bathroom mirror for Campho-Phenique.

"Mommy, I cut my pinky toe!"
"Get me the Campho-Phenique."
"Owwww, Momma, it stings! Blow on it! Blow on it!"
"Phhh...phhhh....Sorry! Better?"
"Yes. Thank you, Mommy!"

As we grew, Campho-Phenique taught us independence.

"Momma, I fell and scraped my elbow!"
"Get the Campho-Phenique. It'll sting for a minute, but then it'll feel better. Just blow on it after you put it on."

It even taught us better hygiene.

"Mom, my...um....my...umm...you know, my (whispered) rear end itches."
"Ewww. Take a bath! Then get the Campho-Phenique."
"How'm I gonna blow on it?"
"I don't know. Don't ask me."

Seriously, she thought it would cure anything.

"Mom...Gary dumped me."
"Oh...sorry. Get the Campho-Phenique. No wait. He what?"

Well, almost anything.

And so it went. If Campho-Phenique didn't fix something, we went to the doctor. And we didn't go to the doctor often. When I grew up, got married and moved into a place of my own, I resisted at first, but eventually that little green bottle made its way into my medicine cabinet.

Then, the day came when I heard the words come out of my own mouth. My little boy came running to me with an ouchy, and I said:

"Get the Campho-Phenique."

Whaaaaaaaat? No, I didn't just say that. Was my mother there hiding? No, it was me! I was turning into my mother. I checked around just to be sure. Yep, Scott toilet tissue on the roller. Tide laundry soap on top of the dryer. Goober Grape in the pantry. Her influence was all over the place, and I hadn't completely realized it until the moment I sent my son to the bathroom for the Campho-Phenique.

The magic handed down from generation to generation comes in different shapes and sizes. To some people, it looks like duct tape. To others, Pepto Bismol. My dad swore it was iodine, but Mom cured him, I think.

Yesterday, my 12-year-old came in my office and showed me her pointer finger. She asked me if I could see the angry red bump on the side near her fingernail. I said, "Yep, that's swollen because of a hangnail. Go dip it in Campho-Phenique, let it soak in for a minute, then wipe off the extra. If it stings, blow on it."

A minute later, I heard her come back through the bathroom door behind me. She was talking to herself.

"Campho-Phenique. It cures anything."

I smiled.


Note: This story was inspired by this month's Blogging for Books at Faster Than Kudzu, the blog of Joshilyn Jackson, author of gods in Alabama and soon-to-be-released Between, Georgia.