As children growing up, we trusted everything our parents told us. In our very tiny, wide-open, and impressionable eyes they were gods whose knowledge and vision transcended everything. Our parents seemed to know when we were sneaking around in every corner of the house, they knew when we weren’t sleeping under the covers and pretending to shut our eyes, and with the deft ability of mythical human CIA lie detecting agents, they seemed to know just when we were fibbing (later to be labeled ’lying’) or telling the truth. We revered them in every way possible, and tried desperately to emulate them – this little fact, I was reminded of as I watched a young school girl of about five years attempted to chew part of her arm off.

As I sat in what little shade I could find, desperately trying to shield any part of my body from the piercing rays of the mid-day sun, I saw her walking down the street. All of about five years old – pig-tails and all – dressed in her navy blue school girl uniform being led down the street by her mother.

It was a hot and busy day, with most people zooming around in a frenetic attempt to complete their mid-day tasks and then run for cover from the sun once again. I SPY: this woman, with her cell phone in hand glued to her ear in full volume conversation, and multiple shopping bags full of ‘must-have’ goodies, was rushing down the street with her daughter, in the same attempt to get out of the sun’s rays. People raced all around them, and as her mother continued to engage in conversation on her phone, her bags slung haphazardly through her right forearm, she clung tightly to her daughter’s left forearm to prevent her from wandering off or disappearing into the thick crowd.

The little girl knew that this act of public detainment was for her own safety. Mom MUST hold on to her, so that she does not get lost. I am quite sure that much like the rest of us at that age, the fear of strangers and the dangers that they pose was constantly drilled into her ever-impressionable mind. However, mom was almost three times taller than her beloved little girl, who at this point resembled a rag-doll being dragged down the street by a 6 foot dog by her arm than a mother and daughter on a casual walk. But try and keep up this little girl did … she was a little trooper. Besides, mom knew what was best for her.

And then it happened. She got an itch. Her right elbow began to tickle, then twitch, and then escalated to feeling more like a swarm of mosquitos had declared war on her funny bone. And if you have ever had an itch you couldn’t scratch, you may know how this little girl was starting to feel.

Must … not … try … (itchy) to … let … go (oh so very itchy). Mom may get mad at what she would perceive as an attempt to escape the grip, and voicing her slowly building discomfot at the ant hill of an itch would most definitely be considered as an untimely interruption upon her important phone conversation.

And so shackled by her mother’s kung-fu grip on her left forearm, and a raging firestorm of an itch on her right elbow … she did the only thing she could do. She started to bite and gnaw at her itch. With her teeth. Using her tiny little teeth like a squirrel on speed desperately trying to open a stubborn nut, she scratched that elbow with her teeth for everything she was worth. Gnaw, bite, scratch.

I began to laugh out loud at this scene, watching what looked like a little girl attempting to gnaw her arm off from the elbow. I laughed freely, without a care for who may have been around. And as mother and child walked directly in front of me – still hiding in the shade of a sad little canopy – she stopped biting, looked at me and smiled a smile that could have only been the relief brought about by scratching an itch that could not have been easily scratched. As I watched them move on, slowly disappearing from view, I noticed she began to skip tiny little steps … happy that the ordeal was over with.