What the Varchar?
I thought band aids were supposed to be the fix all for kids’ boo boos. I found out recently, with the help of my four-year-old daughter, that this is mostly wrong. I mean, when she fell and scraped her knee last weekend, the band aid did stop the blood from, as she put it, pouring out of her body. Temporarily, the problem was fixed. The nightmare, however, was just beginning. For the next week, this band aid became the bane of my existence. I was beginning to regret ever putting it on my daughter’s knee. I was pretty sure I hated all band aids.
Molly was convinced that this band aid was the only thing stopping every drop of blood from pouring (she really became attached to that word) out of her body. She would get terribly upset at bath time, cried when she went into the pool (even though it was about 98 degrees that day and very little would have prevented me from jumping in for a swim). She cried when she had to pull her pants up and down, cried when she had to bend her knee for just about anything including sitting, standing back up, running, peeing; you get the idea.
Finally, the band aid started to come off a little bit at one corner. Molly was convinced this was the end of the world as she knew it. She spent an hour walking around the house limping and hunched over because she had her hand on her knee, holding onto that band aid for dear life.
I knew I had to do something, but there was no reasoning with this hysterical child. I suggested replacing the band aid with a new, stickier one, but that just elevated the crying to a horrible sort of screeching. Molly was sure that if band aid number one was removed, I could not get band aid number two on fast enough before the blood would, well, you know.
I sat back and tried to think of a plan. I realized that this band aid thing was not working out. Replacing the band aid would only prolong my painful battle with said band aid. And really, since it had been 5 days, she did not actually need he band aid anymore. I had to get rid of the band aid.
I calmed the hysterical Molly down, sat her on my lap and explained that her boo-boo needed to breathe. No dice. I told her it was a scab now, and that there was no more blood coming out. No luck. I told her that it was time to set the boo-boo free. She wasn’t having any of that.
Finally, I appealed to Molly’s innate fear and hatred of all things germ. I told her if her boo-boo stayed in the band aid too long, it would get dirty and we would not be able to clean it, thus, germs would arrive on the scene. Her eyes grew wide and she thought about it for a minute. She agreed that I could take off the band aid, clean it in the bath, and we would then leave it uncovered. At last, the band aid was gone.
Now Molly had an open wound, an exciting story to tell people, and I do not have to fight with the band aid anymore. Now onto the next battle…explaining to Molly that she should not get upset because no one wants to take her up on her offer to “touch my boo-boo.”