It Was the Perfect Storm (of Stomach Aches)

The Boy has always had a thing for hot and spicy foods that burn his mouth. He has a high tolerance. When he was 10, he had a hot sauce eating contest with the Vansome, who was well known for his love of heat. The Boy smoked him.
Last week, while we were taking care of the dog, The Boy snagged a bottle of hot sauce from Grammy's. "HOT SAUCE Salsa Picante de CHILE HABANERO El Yucateco Much More Habanero!" read the label. It was a small bottle, most likely bought during one of her trips to San Antonio. The hot sauce itself was that unnatural flourescent green color, a glow-in-the-dark version of the green ketchup that was on the market a few years ago. He loved it.

Last night, The Boy made his new favorite snack, a hot sauce sandwich. Two pieces of whole wheat bread bleeding flourescent green. He ate it a little too quickly. Then he got stupid, I mean macho. He made a second sandwich. The Vansome had one of his dead-bunny-in-the-garage moments. (see the last paragraph of this post) He encouraged The Boy to add sliced jalapenos to his flourescent green hot sauce sandwich. The clashing colors of the two greens were enough to hurt my eyes. But I wasn't eating it. I could look away. I did warn and nag and worry out loud, like any good mom. He was immediately sorry. He kept coming out his room throughout the evening (interrupting our Lost Season One DVD-athon) saying things like, "Man, my mouth hurts" and "It hurts to talk" and "This is really burning me." Once he came out to tells us "When I drool, my spit burns me." Niiiiice.

Today, when I picked him up from work, The Boy informed me that we were returning the hot sauce to Grammy's at my earliest possible convenience. "It is the devil," he said. "The hot sauce has won." He told me he believed Beelzebub himself had tried to crawl out of his butt. He was in pain. A lot of pain. He was pretty sure he had second degree burns on his intestines. But that's not the worst of it.
To ease the burning in his mouth last night, I encouraged him to drink lots of milk. Milk neutralizes the chemicals that cause the burns. He drank more than one large glass full. Downed them, one after the other. He's lactose intolerant. Lactose, guess what, upsets his stomach.
There was a third actor in this trifecta of stomach hell. The Boy suffers from what he and I refer to as "a nervous stomach." He (and I, because he inherited it from me) get painful and inconvenient stomach problems whenever we are nervous or anxious. The Boy spent a good part of fifth grade in the bathroom. School hours yesterday were devoted to working on college stuff, which left him feeling stressed. Which led to nervous stomach problems. On top of the lactose intolerence stomach problems. On top of the hot sauce sandwich overload.
He said, "Mom, I'm pooping flames." I laughed, or laughed harder, because he had me in stitches the whole way home. As we rounded the last corner, he made a vow, in his most solemn, vow-making voice. "I will never eat hot things...for a while."