That’s Sam exhibiting his IN-JUR-RIES for the camera. While his bare chest, belligerent pout and gang sign gesture portray him as the neighbourhood toughie, make no mistake: those Dora the Explorer band-aids mask the minor scratches of everyday life as a sensitive preschooler.
Sam’s just stuck on band-aids.
He used to be a little wary of the whole bandaging procedure and would sooner hide an ouchie than have it examined and treated. To add interest to the First Aid kit, we stocked band-aids of assorted shapes, sizes and designs—Dora, Spiderman, Incredibles, Batman, Curious George, Pirate patches. He wasn’t interested. Each tearful conversation about the latest mishap would end abruptly with my offer to band-aid the boo-boo: “No thank you. It doesn’t hurt that much.” And off he'd go.
Then this spring sprung and suddenly everything hurts that much. Sam’s been sporting multiple band-aids for weeks, a superhero convention drawn across his knuckles and the tops of his feet. The comic relief is ironic, given the high drama of each event. Sam no longer uses the usual vocabulary of minor injury, for these aren’t simply “cuts,” “scrapes” and “scratches.” Rather, he comes flying in from the backyard with the blood-curdling announcement: “MY SKIN is OPEN! You can SEE RIGHT INSIDE!” He often defines the barely-there red line of a light scratch as “blood” and argues that even the mere impression of a zipper trail pressed into his flesh requires bandaging.
And he puts on quite a convincing show while we wash up and inspect the site of alleged injury: he’s all splashy tears, stamping feet, bugged out eyes, and sucking intake of pained breath. Then, like the little addict he is, he visibly relaxes at the sight of the band-aid box, cheers at the offer to choose his next one, and skips back to play with a fresh badge of this new playground honour. That’s the end of it, for the most part.
Last week, though, a barbed thorn found its way through his Sens jersey and had to be plucked from his chest with tweezers. You’d have thought we suggested open-heart surgery, so frantic was he at the sight of the surgical instruments. After the procedure, he stuck his hand up under his shirt to hold it protectively over that hard-won skull & crossbones band-aid. And he kept his hand there for 3 days. Seriously. We called him Napoleon (how could we not?) and shot a short movie of him awkwardly going about his business as a one-armed boy. "I can't use my other hand now," he'd explain, refusing to carry his dinner plate or fumbling with the clicker...
He used to be a little wary of the whole bandaging procedure and would sooner hide an ouchie than have it examined and treated. To add interest to the First Aid kit, we stocked band-aids of assorted shapes, sizes and designs—Dora, Spiderman, Incredibles, Batman, Curious George, Pirate patches. He wasn’t interested. Each tearful conversation about the latest mishap would end abruptly with my offer to band-aid the boo-boo: “No thank you. It doesn’t hurt that much.” And off he'd go.
Then this spring sprung and suddenly everything hurts that much. Sam’s been sporting multiple band-aids for weeks, a superhero convention drawn across his knuckles and the tops of his feet. The comic relief is ironic, given the high drama of each event. Sam no longer uses the usual vocabulary of minor injury, for these aren’t simply “cuts,” “scrapes” and “scratches.” Rather, he comes flying in from the backyard with the blood-curdling announcement: “MY SKIN is OPEN! You can SEE RIGHT INSIDE!” He often defines the barely-there red line of a light scratch as “blood” and argues that even the mere impression of a zipper trail pressed into his flesh requires bandaging.
And he puts on quite a convincing show while we wash up and inspect the site of alleged injury: he’s all splashy tears, stamping feet, bugged out eyes, and sucking intake of pained breath. Then, like the little addict he is, he visibly relaxes at the sight of the band-aid box, cheers at the offer to choose his next one, and skips back to play with a fresh badge of this new playground honour. That’s the end of it, for the most part.
Last week, though, a barbed thorn found its way through his Sens jersey and had to be plucked from his chest with tweezers. You’d have thought we suggested open-heart surgery, so frantic was he at the sight of the surgical instruments. After the procedure, he stuck his hand up under his shirt to hold it protectively over that hard-won skull & crossbones band-aid. And he kept his hand there for 3 days. Seriously. We called him Napoleon (how could we not?) and shot a short movie of him awkwardly going about his business as a one-armed boy. "I can't use my other hand now," he'd explain, refusing to carry his dinner plate or fumbling with the clicker...
Eventually, I convinced him that he might need that tucked-in hand to break the fall of a serious stumble, and it's possible he tested that theory at school the next day as he came home with two Elastoplast bandages across the base of his palm, bringing the left-hand total up to 4. So pleased was he with this tally that I’m half watchful now for signs of self-injury and am a tad concerned that last night he dreamt that Carter’s penis came off in the tub and flushed away down the drain and so he needed a BIG band-aid. He spoke rather matter-of-factly about the penis loss and focused enviously on the glorious band-aid reward. Now THAT would be some band-aid… (dream analysis? that's for another post!)
1 comment:
I have to say it seems a little concerning that Sam is dreaming about the loss of Carter's penis. Look out cousin! ha!
Post a Comment