“MOM! I’m bleeding!”
I hear that two or three times a day.
It’s rare to actually have actual blood loss. Usually, it’s a vain attempt to procure a bandage. I fell into the children’s band aid trap with my first purchase of the Barbie variety. And I found myself turning the bathroom into an infirmary. Children were either purposely injuring themselves, or feigning their wounds to score a pretty pink band aid.
A favorite parenting moment was when Emme was certain that she had broken her arm and fashioned a sling out of her best bandana.
So, now I only purchase the flesh colored middle of the road type wound covering. Not very exciting. But awfully handy should I need to conceal a pimple with it’s own zip code. You know, to draw attention away from my face.
Yet still, the children still clamor for that elusive bandage. So, tonight when I heard the familiar words from my Cailey’s lips, I wasn’t at all concerned.
Last night she campaigned hard for a Curad. She had me talked into it just for a little peace and quiet, when her sister came running into the bathroom. “MOM! Don’t give her one. Daddy told her NO BAND AID!”
“Cailey, you know better than to ask me after Daddy says no,” I lectured her as she sulked off to bed. On the way back to her room, I heard her admonish her narc sister, “Emme, I am SO disappointed at you.”
I live in fear and dread of the day when they discover that if they work together, they can get away with so much more.
So, tonight, I see Cailey wander out of the bathroom after her luxurious evening soak in my garden tub. Complete with 400 Polly Pockets and all of their 2000 accessories. She’s staring hard at her fingertip, and indeed, there is bleeding. An impressive amount.
I knew immediately what had transpired. Whenever she uses my tub, I automatically put my razor up on the counter so she’s never tempted to shave.
“I don’t know how it happened,” she offers, tears forming. “Cailey, you touched my razor, didn’t you?” I lead her back into the bathroom, toward the bandages.
This is when she realizes that she’s really bleeding. You know, blood. And she starts shaking her hands wildly, jumping up and down.
Within seconds, my bathroom looked like a crime scene.
As I made a tourniquet out of the ultra soft Charmin, she calmed enough to admit, “Um, my hand kind of fell onto the razor.”
A life of certain crime is eminent unless I intervene. And frankly, stripes aren’t flattering on her.
We had a long and lengthy talk about disobeying. And lying. And shaving. And why my new Gillette Venus Embrace razor with it’s pivoting five blade system that gives me the closest shave I’ve ever experienced should never again be played with.
Afterwards, she received her flesh colored band aid. Because she really did need it. To, you know, stop the blood loss. And save the carpeting. Not to mention my sanity.
All the way down the hall, she stared at the Curad which tightly wrapped the tip of her finger. And angrily she spoke to it. “I do not like band aids. I do not like them at all.”
I think she may be cured.