Listening to: Wilco, A Ghost Is Born
We're Code Blue here with a paper cut. My oldest, normally a pretty mature and level-headed six-year old, goes to pieces with a paper cut. No blood, no real discernable wound at all, she's nonetheless histionic. You'd think it was a G.S.W. to the abdomen.
Some of you are saying, "Dude, paper cuts do hurt, bad, give the kid a break." To which I'd say, you're right; I give her a break but that's not the point, here. Lilly believes that a band-aid will make everything better. Daddy's kiss has been replaced with a band-aid.
My two younger ones are likewise convinced of the curative properties of band aids, everything from swallowed apple seeds to spilt milk. Put a band aid on it and its been marked, boo boo, boo hoo, something went bad, if momentarily, memorialize it and man, it looks cool! I have at least a dozen of em' on my refrigerator, Rugrats and Scooby-doo, purples ones, purple dinosaurs, it's like a band aid seller's sample board.
My memory of band aids was that they hurt like hell (which tells you what a wussy kid I was) and that after one fell off your finger, you could take the rolled up remains of your wound, fold it in half, and shoot it off from a rubber band into the neck of someone deserving that kind of pain and degradation.
Everything's fixed with a band aid? Hell, put one on my bug. Not Lilly (although she's "Bug" like almost everyone's else calls their daughter), my 68' Volkswagon. Still, putting off replacing my clutch cable and that's good? Great, I'm there.
Lilly awakes to a nightmare, a vague, plaintive cry letting me know something's doesn't feel good. I step from my computer to her room, stroking her hair, asking her what's wrong. "A bad dream, daddy," she says and I assure her, it's just a dream, it's not real, it's OK, daddy's here. I pick her up and hold her, kiss her forhead, put her back down. There's no band aid big enough.