I have a much more dramatic story to tell about how I was burned at the age of two and how my dad saved me a horrible outcome. My story begins when we were living in Atlanta, where Dad was going to chiropractic college and working two jobs to keep food on the family table. As an energetic toddler, I was a whirling dervish, just like Joshua.

 

One afternoon, Mom was cooking Spaghetti Marco Polo, which was whole wheat pasta with olives and spices. My parents and I were vegetarians then, so we ate a meatless diet. (My parents decided that I needed the nutrients only found in meat when I was four years old.) Even though I had never eaten any meat, I can remember not being a big Spaghetti Marco Polo fan because of the olives.

 

At any rate, Mom was cooking up dinner in the kitchen, which is where I happened to be hanging out that afternoon. Next to a small table was an old-fashioned water distiller. In case you haven’t heard of these contraptions, water distillers produce disinfected water suitable for drinking, cooking, and other household uses. Apparently my parents didn’t have great confidence in the municipal water piped into our home, so they used a water distiller to remove chlorine and mineral and microbiological contaminants by heating ordinary tap water to 212 degrees Fahrenheit, killing any bacteria or viruses that may have been present in the city water.

 

Our water distiller sat on a wooden cabinet that had a small door. I loved to swing like a monkey on that cabinet door, something my mother told me in no uncertain terms not to do. Being two years old, however, I had no comprehension of how dangerous it was to “play” next to a boiler filled with scalding-hot water, so I paid her no mind and swung on the door anyway.

 

I think you can picture what happened next: while Mom’s back was turned as she stirred a pot of simmering tomato sauce, I jumped on that cabinet door for a swing. Suddenly, gallons of boiling water dumped on me, and I screamed bloody murder. I landed in a heap as scorching water flooded the linoleum floor. Dad, who heard my shrieks, sprinted into the kitchen to investigate. The boiling water burned the skin of his feet, even through his shoes, slowing him down momentarily.

 

I can’t remember what happened next, but I’m told that my parents ripped off my clothes and hustled me outside. Dad grabbed some aloe vera leaves from the backyard and gave them to Mom to rub over me. Then he ran to the bathroom cabinet, where we kept various homeopathic medicines. He reached for a “rescue remedy” that he had saved for these type of situations, then hustled back outside and applied the homeopathic lotion to my parboiled skin. As you can imagine, I wailed to the heavens and cried my lungs out as only a toddler can do.

 

Then my quivering parents wrapped me in a quilt and sped me to a local clinic for medical attention. I’m sure they expected the worst. By the time we arrived, however, I had totally calmed down. The tears had stopped. A doctor laid me down on an examination table, where he gingerly pulled away the quilt. Attached to the inside of the quilt was multiple layers of . . . my skin. On my body, some areas of burned skin had bubbled and blistered, but what I remember is that I wasn’t hurting. In fact, my parents said I was grinning from all the attention. I hadn’t been administered any conventional pain relievers—just the aloe vera and homeopathic rescue remedy.

 

The doctor, however, wasn’t smiling. After examining me, he informed my parents in grave tones that I would be scarred on my entire right side of my body, from the face down, for the rest of my life. I was destined to look like Two-Face, the villain and archenemy of Batman whose face was gruesomely disfigured on his left side.

When I got home, my parents continued to rub aloe vera and the rescue remedy on my tender, pink skin. They also burst open pearls of vitamin E, which they soothingly applied to my burns. Their homeopathic approach completely healed me: thirty years later, my only scar is a dime-sized blemish on my right rip. You can’t tell I ever suffered such severe burns, especially in my face.

 

I think my “getting burned” tale is the bedtime story that Joshua has asked me retell the most. It seems like every time I trundle him off to bed these days, he says, “Tell me a story about when you were a baby, Daddy.”

 

So I retell the story about Baby Jordi being in the kitchen when Grandma Phyllis was cooking Spaghetti Marco Polo. Grandma warned Baby Jordi not to swing on the cabinet door, but he did anyway, and the water distiller came tumbling down and burned Baby Jordi’s skin. At the end of every bedtime story I become real serious and say, “Baby Jordi disobeyed Grandma and Grandpa when he hung on the cabinet door. He got hurt.”

 

I don’t mind telling him that I disobeyed for two reasons:

1. That’s exactly what happened. Mom warned me not to swing on the cabinet door, but I did it anyway.

2. I want Joshua to learn that there are consequences to your actions. In this childhood instance, I got severely burned.

 

I think Joshua has gotten the message loud and clear. I hope you’ve gotten the other message about aloe vera because I think should also have some available in case someone in the family gets burned, which can happen when you least expect it. You might consider buying an aloe vera plant in pot and having it ready for an emergency. Of course, if any family member gets burned, you must seek medical attention, but your quick thinking and use of aloe vera may save your child’s skin—literally—like it did for me.