It’s been almost three weeks now since Chooch’s foot-maiming and there is nary a faint red scratch marring his flesh to indicate any hint of what was once a gnarly gash.

But he’s still favoring it, swaddling it with a sock. He comes home from a long day at Target, the playground, the Hells Angels meeting in the alley behind the Army Navy store; strips off his shoes and pants like all men do, but always keeps the sock on his left foot. Henry and I have been calling him Choochie One Sock.

“Chooch,” I’ll start. “You can honestly take that sock off now.”

“No, I need it.”

He was even keeping it on during baths at first. Actually, he wouldn’t even put his foot in the water. He’d prop himself up in a way that allowed for him to extend his left leg, keeping his battle wound from meeting the dastardly bath water.

Finally, I held his foot into the water like a sack of kittens, in spite of his thrashing and yowling.

“THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH YOUR FOOT ANYMORE!” I shouted the other day, over top of his skin-prickling shrieks. Then I hurriedly allowed him to fling his foot back to the surface before the neighbors called the police under suspicion that the crazy girl next door had activated the torture chamber again.

Today, I swore we were making progress. He mindlessly peeled the sock off as he prepared for his bath. He then subconsciously submerged his foot into the water. I waited, braced myself, held my breath in anticipation for a vocal reenactment of Misery’s foot scene.

Nothing. Not even slight whining. Not even a whispered “ow” or a sharp intake of breath.

“Why, my son is done near HEALED,” I thought, referring more to his mental complex than the injury itself.

After his bath, I left him alone to dress in his room. About twenty minutes later, he drove past me on his tricycle and I noticed that he had completed his post-bath ensemble with one goddamn sock.

It sort of reminds me of myself, and the psychotic way I obsessed over my C-section incision for MONTHS.

It’s been 4 years and I swear there are still times when I feel phantom twinges, stings, and tenderness.

In fact, it would have been nice to have had the luxury of guarding my wound with a sock. I’d probably still be wearing it.