Binglefont Foo and the Comb That Had Roamed

Binglefont Foo and the Comb That Had Roamed

A fuzzy tale of friendship, assumption, and finding what matters most

Binglefont Foo, a fuzzy Whazoo, lived right by a tree,
Deep in a magical forest, happily.
He lived in a house—though some called it a stump—
With a round little door and a soft mossy hump.
A cozy brown home near the base of the tree,
Where he’d wave every morning to his neighbor, the Bee.

He kept his own comb in a neat little dome—
Not honey-filled like the Bee’s, but a hair-comb for home.
The Bee had his hive and his honey, all sweet,
But Binglefont’s fuzz needed tidying neat.
So he placed his comb proudly where fuzz could be tamed,
In the house that he loved, and that’s where it remained.

But one summer day, Binglefont Foo,
Returned to his home—a stump with a view—
To find the small door was hanging ajar…
And his comb, so beloved… had wandered afar!

“Bee!” he cried, gazing high in the tree.
“My comb! It's not home! It is gone—do you see?”

“Gone?” said the Bee. “Well that’s quite odd.
Combs don’t go walking… they’ve no legs to abscond!”

“Yes,” said Binglefont. “It should be inside.
But it’s clearly not—there’s no place to hide!”

So the Whazoo and Bee, both earnest and keen,
Set off to recover what once had been seen.
They searched high and low, behind rocks and grass,
They checked near the stump and each critter that passed.
They searched all around, but the comb was just… gone.
It was clearly a mystery they had stumbled upon.

“Bee,” asked Binglefont, scratching his head,
“You sit in that tree. Were any words said?
Any footsteps, whispers, buzzing, or croon—
Did you hear someone pass in the heat of the noon?”

“I do now recall,” said the Bee with a hum,
“A wandering Cuckoo did happen to come.
It asked about combs and about honey.
It seemed quite polite… and a little bit funny.”

“A wandering Cuckoo? Oh, that’s quite rare.
Usually all we get near our tree is a bear!”

So now they had something—a definite clue.
The comb went missing… and a Cuckoo came through.
But Binglefont paused—he wouldn’t accuse.
He’d learned from his mother—you think, before you choose.

“Never assume,” she’d said every night.
“When something goes missing, don’t start a fight.
Look for the truth, be patient, be wise.
The facts are your compass—not panic or cries.”

So Binglefont Foo, being wise for his age,
Set off on the path with the Bee in a rage.
Well—the Bee buzzed loudly, the Whazoo did not shout—
Because Binglefont knew what assuming’s about.

They moved up the trail, then moved up some more,
Past beetles and grasshoppers, right to the shore.
Bee saw a green Feathered Whazat that he knew a bit well,
And asked it for directions—and boy did it tell!
For there, on a log, with feathers askew,
Sat the single blue wandering Cuckoo.

“Good day!” said the Whazoo with delicate cheer.
“Have you seen my comb? It’s wandered, I fear.”

“Combs do not roam,” said the bird with a chuckling tone.
“Did you leave it behind with a napkin or pin?
On your mat, in your hat, under crumbs on a plate?
I misplace things too—it’s just part of our fate.”

“No hat and no mat,” Binglefont said, polite.
“I checked my whole house—it just isn’t right.
The Bee said you visited earlier today.
So I thought I would ask, in a courteous way.”

“I did visit the tree, and I greeted this Bee.
But I saw no house—just a stump next to me.”
The Cuckoo then blinked, gave a chuckle and flap,
“Wait—that stump was your house? Oh my, there’s the gap!”

“You had me stumped!” the Cuckoo did cry.
“I thought you meant a house, raised up high!”

“Haha!” laughed Binglefont. “That joke’s a good one.
You’d fit in quite well beneath our friendship’s sun.”
The Bee, no longer angry, hummed with delight.
And all of them smiled, as well as they might.

“But,” said the Cuckoo, remembering anew,
“I did see a bear just waddling through.
It passed by the stump with a sniff and a stare—
And bears, as we know, are curious about lairs.”

“A bear!” gasped Binglefont. “That’s news I can use.
It likely thought every comb came with the honey ooze.
Bears aren’t that clever—but they are quite bold.
And their assumptions, I’m told, can’t be controlled.”

So off he went to the big bear’s den,
And found there a bear. He asked a question right then.
The bear just pointed and muttered, “Back there, round the end.”
He climbed over some roots, and came back again—
With his comb! Just a bit sticky, no worse for the wear.
“I thought it had honey,” confessed the embarrassed bear.

“It didn’t,” said Binglefont. “But that’s okay too.
Next time, try asking—it’s the Whazoo thing to do.”

“Never assume,” he added, not at all snide,
As he walked off to home with his comb and with a satisfied stride.
And the Bee buzzed alongside,
Looking at his friend with generous pride.

Back at his stump, in the shade of the tree,
He polished the comb and sipped honey with Bee.
He placed it in its dome and gave it a nod—
A fuzzy Whazoo with a clean comb—not at all odd!

“You’re there when I need you, though I don’t today, it’s true.
Tomorrow when my fuzz is unkempt again, I’ll be counting upon you.
And just like my mother so wisely often said,
Some things are best saved for what lies ahead.
Never assume and keep your comb clean.”

So if you should wonder, dear reader, it’s true—
Are you as wise as a fuzzy Whazoo?

Afterword

I was sitting there on a calm and warm night, many years ago, when the mood — or perhaps the muse — came upon me and whispered,
“Once in your life, you should write a nursery rhyme. Something old-school, with moral lessons and a few absurdities. Fun and engaging.”
And so, I wrote the first draft of Binglefont Foo. Then I tucked it away, thinking:
“One day I’ll finish this… maybe even add pictures.”

That day finally came. And here we are.
It took longer than I expected. :)

Story and characters © 2025 M.W. Please comb responsibly.
All Rights Reserved

Caregiving Unzipped: Why I Wear White T-Shirts

 

I wrote this because I was smiling to myself after a Senior Helper gave me that look when she arrived and said, “That shirt... what have you been into?”

I told her.
She paused and said, “I think you need to change that one.”
And I replied, “But I am cleaning the shower.”

So, I thought I’d share this with others — my fellow family caregivers.

__________________

I wear white T-shirts.
Not because they’re fashionable.
Not because they hide anything.
I wear them because they don’t.

In the world of caregiving, white T-shirts don’t flatter — they inform.
They don’t camouflage — they confess.
And in this work, I need my clothing to tell me the truth.

That faint spot? I saw it immediately.
That smudge? Didn’t come from me, which means it came from someone who depends on me (or their Depends) — and that matters.
Because when bodily fluids show up uninvited, I’d rather be warned than surprised.
The mirror always provides that surprise.
I’ll go half a day thinking I made it out clean, and then — bam — there it is:
streaked across my chest like I lost a paintball match with the kids I don’t have —
although I do have an elderly toddler.

Dark shirts? They lie.
They whisper, “Everything’s fine,”
while quietly ferrying things you do not want to discover
while folding laundry
or, worse, shaking someone’s hand.

White T-shirts are my early-warning system.
My fire alarm.
My cotton armor that says, “Something happened here — and it’s time to clean house.”
They’re also my bib.
When the coffee spills —
or when the coffee gets spilled onto me —
that cotton chestplate takes the hit.
It’s not glamorous.
But it is washable.
Easily replaceable.
And that’s half the battle.

In caregiving, you don’t always get time for wardrobe changes.
So when something ends up where it shouldn’t,
I want a shirt that announces,
“Houston, we have a situation,”
not one that hides it until it spreads.

And let’s be clear:
you clean the skin before you change the shirt.
No point wrapping a gift if the box is leaking.

Of course, that’s always when someone knocks at the door.
You answer it innocently — because you’ve already forgotten what your shirt’s been through —
and suddenly you’re giving Texas Chainsaw energy
to an Amazon driver who just wanted a signature.
Poor skittish driver.
You were just making lunch.
Or at worst — cleaning the oven.

White undershirts don’t last forever.
They stain.
They stretch.
Eventually, they wave the white flag
and get turned into rags,
cleaning cloths,
or cautionary tales.

But while they’re with me, they work.
They warn.
They wear every stain with honesty,
and they let me reset at the end of each day
with nothing hiding beneath the surface.

And no, I don’t wear white pants.
White T-shirts are about visibility.
White pants are a dare.
Too revealing to survive a caregiving day —
unless you’re actively hoping for a surprise scene in public.

The shorts I wear —
varied in color, changed daily —
aren’t just for comfort during the thermostat wars
between the young(er) and the old(er).
They’re a sanitation protocol.
Because in this line of work, once is plenty.
Twice is reckless.

And yes, there are uniforms:
workwear, scrubs, bleach-safe everything.
Probably the smartest option.
But those look like shifts.
And family caregiving doesn’t clock out.
My day is 24 hours long.
I don’t want to live it in a uniform
that makes me look like an escapee from the ward,
the road crew,
or a visiting nurse.

I want something that still feels like me —
even if it’s covered in ketchup,
coffee,
or Tuesday’s mystery goo.

So, no —
it’s not a fashion choice.
It’s a field-tested protocol.
It’s a quiet manifesto in cotton.

And maybe, just maybe,
the first honest garment I put on all day.

My underpants?
Those are too honest after a long day of coffee.
Perhaps that’s why they call them “unmentionables.”

For anyone wondering why my shirt always looks like it’s been through something... it has. And I wrote about it

Copyright June 2025 M. W. Van Dyke
All Rights Reserved

Caregiving Unzipped - Chronicles: The Enema Episode - The Very Long Day

Caregiver Chronicles: The Enema Episode

“One thing I learned today about giving an elderly person with dementia an enema … don’t do it alone.”
‘Nuff said.

That meme I created today came to me mid-chaos, somewhere between the in-betweens. I thought it was funny, relatable, and layered — one of those lines that’s funny for some, serious for others, and spot-on for those in the caregiving trenches.

My day began like many others: wake Dad at 6:00 a.m., give medications, hydrate. But the moment he sat up, I knew routine had packed its bags and left the building. A particular squish followed by an unmistakable smell — yep, it was going to be one of those days

Naturally, today was also the day my senior helper didn’t come. No nurse visits scheduled either.

Dad’s had diarrhea for a few days — volume and intensity bouncing like a yo-yo. He’d just wrapped up another round of antibiotics, which often bring side effects. But this wasn’t just skin irritation or inflammation. I knew this pain — the way he winced while sitting said it all. This was paradoxical diarrhea: both constipation and diarrhea at once. I call it the flow-around. Solid matter blocks the exit, while everything else squeezes past like water leaking through cracked mortar.

So I moved fast. Laid down Chux pads like I was prepping for a levy-breaking flood — bed, floor, bathroom path. Got Dad up, shuffled him to the sink, and (after slicing away his diaper) started containment.
They call them Chux pads because you chuck them — single-use heroes of the home front.
And no matter how many you lay down, the mess always finds a way to escape. Then he steps in it. Tracks it. You know the scenario well, don't you, my fellow caregivers.

From there: toilet attempt (failed), shower battle (epic), resistance (high), volume (loud enough to summon the gods), pain (shared). I often say I wash my father like a truck — not roughly, but deliberately. With care and purpose. You try not to damage the paint, even in a storm.
But the truck doesn’t know that.
It’ll still roll over your foot.

What I found confirmed my suspicion: the blockage was there — just low enough to be felt, but too large to pass. Manual extraction? Not an option. Dad wouldn’t allow it — and he still packs a punch.

Out of the shower, back to the bed (now a fortress of Chux). Feet cleaned before landing — because yes, they’d walked through the minefield — unsuccessfully. Yet again.

Then came the enema. Administering that alone? Don’t. Just … don’t. It requires strength, dexterity, emotional fortitude, and probably soundproofing. I half expected the neighbors to call the police.

And when it kicked in — oh, it kicked in. Quick trip to the bedside commode. But only partial relief. Still blocked. Still painful. Still very much not over.

I lost track of how many times we went back and forth to the shower. Each time trying to preserve dignity, manage pain, clean up the aftermath. I gave him fluids, Lactulose solution, hope. It might take a day or more. Meanwhile, he was exhausted. I was exhausted. And I knew — this was too much to do alone.

Honestly, maybe it was best I did do it alone, since there were no professionals available. If my senior helper — a non-medical aide who’s wonderful in calmer moments — had shown up today, I suspect she would’ve completed her shift … and then ghosted me forever. I thought that as I toiled: this is the kind of day that breaks gentler beings than me — though I’ll admit, I cracked more than a little.

Finally, I set him up to rest. Layers of Chux. A pad over the diaper area. Let him sleep. I kept hydrating him, monitoring him … waiting. The Lactulose bottle? Of course I dropped it. Don’t lift by the cap. Sticky mess. Kitchen floor’s still tacky.

And then — just when I thought I might exhale — he pulled off the top pad, soiled it, and tucked part of the sheets and blanket under himself. They, too, became casualties. So … yes, another cleanup. Another shower. More laundry. More everything.

This isn't the end of my day, just a pause.
I have more to do before the sun comes up. 

---

Some might wonder how I find the time — or the energy — to write this all down. But for me, writing isn’t separate from caregiving. It’s how I stay sane, how I make sense of the chaos. I was born with ink on my palms. It flows out without planning. My mind speaks fluently, even when my mouth says, “What the hell!”

This isn’t just a story. It’s a real, relentless day. A day in the life of a family caregiver.
And the truth is simple: never do this alone — not the enema procedure, not the cleanup, not the holding-it-all-together.
We can do a lot alone. Solo.
But there are things we should never do alone.
This is one of them. One of the many.

And later, I may laugh about today. Or some of it.
But not tonight. Not quite yet.
I see some humor in it, but it hasn’t sunk in enough yet.

My fellow caregivers:
We live this life.
We slowly find our way through.
We make mistakes.

We choose to share them with others.
We do not present the pretenses.
We give of ourselves fully — in caregiving, and in our cautionary tales and life experiences.

We are real,
and we are seen,
and we can be heard —
by those willing to see and to listen.

Copyright June 2025 M. W. Van Dyke
All Rights Reserved