boo boo bandaid

by humanmama on November 6, 2011

Lilly calls Band Aids “booboo bandaids.” Like it’s all one word. Since for her, it really is. If there is anything, and I am talking anything wrong with you, a booboo bandaid is going to fix it. Sometimes you don’t even have a boo boo–mommy checked!–but you still have a pain so great that you absolutely cannot be soothed by anything but a booboo bandaid. And when it’s on, the world is suddenly better. Sure, you might still have a terrible limp from the booboo, but that will only last until you forget about the booboo bandaid, which will be about 2 minutes.

I love to work on the yard. And today was perrrfect for working in the yard–sunny, brisk, gorgeous. I actually stripped down to just jeans and a tshirt at some point, it was that nice. Until it happened: I jumped up onto my parking pad (it’s a 2 or 3 foot jump) and smashed my shin into the concrete block.

Ohh, it hurt. So bad.

No one was home. Carpenter had just taken the children to the grocery store with him. I was going to do some work on my own. And I was left pondering something: I don’t need anyone to fawn over me when I get hurt. But I do like someone to aknowledge when I’m hurt, and say something positive. Like, “are you okay?” or “woah! everything alright?” There was no one around to do that, which was fine, so I just thought about something else while I got some ice.

(Don’t worry: my neighbor saw and said, “aw.” I was all good.)

Carpenter is tough. I mean, like, probably tougher than you. Don’t be offended: he’s waaay tougher than I am, and I consider myself pretty tough. Even when I’m not tough, I’m stubborn enough to not admit when I’m weak. Carpenter is rarely even weak. (I mean, when it comes to boo boos. He is a super sappy crying fool when it comes to watching his daughters grow up, or seeing them hurt, or listening to any song lyric that has “daughter,” or “daddy,” or “butterfly kisses” in it. Don’t tell him I told you.)

His hands are rough, like velcro. He can scratch all our backs without even using his fingernails. He oversees concrete pours all day, and all that concrete dust will sure suck out your hand moisture. It’s the nature of his job. It’s rough–sometimes Carpenter comes home with a blackened fingernail. Or sometimes with no nail. And I say, aghast,

“WHAT HAPPENED?!?”
and he says “Uh, what? Oh [looks at missing fingernail], that? Hmm. [Shrug.] I don’t know.”

But the one [slight] flaw about this amazing toughness is that he totally doesn’t “get” when I need him to just say, “hey, you okay?” if I get hurt. Because he doesn’t need it. Because he’s so tough. So all the time I have to tell him “hey, I need you to check on me,” just like I tell the girls, “go check on your sister if she is crying, you need to see if she’s okay.” It’s one thing about our being so different–he needs to be left alone to heal, I need someone to just say, “EVERYTHING OKAY OVER THERE?!” So I can say, yeah, I am hurting. But I’ll be fine. And I will.

Positive interaction: it’s like my booboo bandaid. What’s yours?

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Mrs Dzo November 7, 2011 at 12:44 pm

I’m with you. I need someone to just ask if I’m OK…even if I know I am. If they pour me a shot of vodka, bonus!
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