Bumps and Bruises

Dear Love Bug,

This morning you were playing in the living room when you let out one of those wails that only half comes out because you start suffocating on your own cry. It means it’s bad, whatever it is. I rushed up from downstairs where I was doing laundry and scooped you up, but you were barely able to breathe you were crying so hard. I held you tight and asked what hurt and waited till you could get it out, but by then we’d already spotted the blood, and it was a gusher. 

Somehow you’d fallen into your box of Duplos and had scraped right through the ring finger cuticle on your right hand. I rushed you upstairs to the bathroom, where Daddy tried to clean it out with peroxide, but you kept letting out these bizarrely non-human yelps and wouldn’t let us get near your finger. So instead I dunked your whole arm under running water from the sink and let the water flow down your arm. You were highly unhappy about this but at least we were able to flush out the cut. 

Then we managed to get you dried off and somehow got a Band-Aid around your finger even though you kept screaming and insisting it should go on your foot. 

Eventually you calmed down enough to choke out, through sobs, that you wanted to watch Paw Patrol and of course that did the trick. 

When I looked down, my nightshirt was stained with splotches of blood as were your PJs. As far as I can remember, this is the first bloody trauma you’ve lived through (except, of course, The First Bloody Trauma, to which nothing will ever compare). 

Once we’d got you cleaned up and dressed, we headed out to a local community fair at which there were a couple of moon bounces. Once we’d encouraged you past the severe disappointment of not being able to partake in the one designated for children five and up, you happily bounced for a bit in the other one. When you decided you were ready to come out, I was directing you down the blow-up ramp to help you down to the pavement. You sat down hard and bounced, of course, right off and landed hard on your back. More wailing tears. Thankfully you’d managed to keep your head up so we avoided head trauma, but you banged up your elbow pretty decently. (And not even your balloon toy laser gun made the tears stop.)

At Lincoln’s second birthday party (happy birthday, Link!) this afternoon, you were perhaps the only kid that didn’t bite it on a protruding stone or a tree root–those state parks’ll git ya every time–but you did manage to spill an entire bottle of bubbles solution down your front and you got your first big ol’ mean splinter. Right in your palm. And oh the tears at getting it out! That one merited an M&M! 

So you’re a bit worse for wear today, but you survived–and you got a corn dog for your troubles at Famous Dave’s, which happens to be the first restaurant you ever went to. “Who’s Dave?” you asked. And we didn’t have an answer for you. 

Love you like crazy, kiddo,




Dear Love Bug,

It pushed 90 degrees yesterday (on Easter!) so I broke out your new, snazzy green-and-blue Osh Kosh sandals that I’d bought for you to wear this summer. You were instantly smitten, even though they’re a size 8T and about an inch too big still. Nevertheless, you managed to navigate the Big Playground just fine in them (admittedly with socks). 
In the afternoon, you played in the front yard for a good, long time, still wearing your sandals but this time without socks. Then we loaded you up in your wagon and walked all the way down to Grace Cafe and back for our sushi and tempura dinner. When we got back to the house, you sat on the bottom step, pulled off your sandals, and settled in to play. 

When I sat down to play with you, you said, “My toe hurts.” I took a look at where you pointed, and sure enough, there was a little blister just beneath and to the side of your right pinky toe. There was a tiny flap of skin from where it had opened. “Oh,” I said. “You have a blister.” I looked up, and the horror on your face was comically intense. “It’s ok,” I rushed to console you. “It’s just a blister. Mamma and Daddy get them all the time!” You burst into tears and wailed for approximately an hour straight. No attempt to mitigate your crying was at all effective. We tried applying Boo Boo Kitty, offering you a Paw Patrol Band-Aid, attempting to clean it with water, asking to kiss it. Nothing worked. You cried and cried and cried. Through tears and snot, you sniffled, “It hurts so much!”

And I believe it hurt. But boy does the melodrama start early. 

You refused to come to the dinner table, so we let you eat your PB&J (also a consolation) at your little table in the living room. We even let you have ice cream for dessert; you stopped crying just long enough to lick your bowl. 

After your bath, you finally allowed us to apply a Chase Band-Aid, but your gimp foot was the first thing you talked about this morning when you woke up. I pulled you out of your crib and went to set you down on the ground, but you retracted your feet and said you couldn’t walk because it hurt so much. When I started getting irritated and threatening, you capitulated and hobbled around on your heel. 

When I dropped you off at daycare and stared in horror at Graham’s split-open bloody knee, he told us about how he fell off his new bike. In response, you whipped off your shoes and socks and offered to show everyone your boo-boo. 

All this for a blister. 

Back at home this evening, you requested a change of dressing to a Marshall Band-Aid. You were so pleased that you showed it off to Marshall (your new best friend) himself.

Love you like crazy, kiddo,