I don't know about your house, but those all-purpose directions don't exactly endear him to the residents of this one. When a kid is howling from a scraped knee, having a 200-pound plus man bearing down on you with a bottle of rubbing alcohol clutched in his fist usually sends the kid so deep into the woods that whole SWAT teams have been known to come up missing while looking for them.

 The children, who are much wiser than their choice of television shows often indicate, have learned to smuggle breaks in the skin to me, their mother, and by-pass the guy with the alcohol. I'd like to think it's because I am a Master Boo-Boo Fixer, a title all mothers naturally inherit by virtue of labor and delivery. But that's not it. In the case of my off-spring, it's merely self-preservation, because since birth they've heard the same four words come out of their father's lips. It goes like this:

 Kid:  A bug bit me.

 Dad: Put alcohol on it.

 Kid: I fell down.

 Dad: Put alcohol on it.

 Kid: I think my arm is broken.

 Dad: Hmmm. Put alcohol on it, then spray your throat with that green stuff for good measure.

 While alcohol is his treatment of  choice for injuries, things that bite and rashes, green throat spray is what he administers to the interior of the human body. Have a sore throat? Spray it. Headache? Again, spray your throat. Constipated? Well, you get the idea...

 Don't ask me why he's hung up on that bottle of green stuff, but it's his answer to chicken soup. And sometimes I truly worry about the man, such as the other day when I was sitting at the breakfast table, miserable after dealing with a debilitating sinus infection that refused to let me sleep, exacerbated by medications that made me drowsy and even more incoherent than usual.

 He was reading the paper and I was trying to focus on whatever section of the paper he had given me. I glanced around the house -- the place was a mess: toys scattered everywhere, clothes in various stages of laundry, a sink full of dishes -- and made the comment that I felt absolutely horrible. He finished chewing his toast, took a sip of his coffee, then glanced at me over the top of his newspaper.

 "Spray some of that green stuff on your throat," he said.

 I won't go into detail here as to my exact response, however it's worth noting there was no one present quite big enough to wash my mouth out with soap or I'd be blowing bubbles right now. I politely excused myself (threw my section of the paper at him), informed him I was offended by that remark (ranted and raved), as well as the state the house was in (a pig sty fit only for those living in it) and calmly glided upstairs to my room (stomped and slammed the door loud enough to break molars on innocent bystanders) and took a nap.

 Later, when I ventured out, the house had been picked up and he had the uncommon good sense to farm out our off-spring just in case Mama got a little testy again (she didn't).

 I survived my sinus infection, but not with good grace and a sense of humor. And not once did I spray my throat with that green stuff. In fact, I've been considering tossing it in the trash when my spouse's back is turned.

 But I'm afraid he'll make me go out in the middle of the night and buy him another bottle the next time he has a stomach ache.