So, I’ve been kicking sending the girls outside every afternoon ever since the weather got nice again. They are starting to enjoy the great outdoors and blessedly, we live on a street with lots of kids their age, so there is always someone outside for them to hang with.
Today, the girls and another little boy were outside playing “King and Queen and Princess and Prince and Witch” (whatever that is) between our house and the little boys’ house about 4 houses down. I know we don’t live on Sesame Street or in Mr. Rogers Neighborhood, but I feel pretty comfortable having them outside while I’m inside. I’m definitely within screaming distance. Plus, more often than not, I end up on the porch swing with my Coke Zero and my laptop so I can keep an eye on things.
Anyway, this afternoon, the girls were in and out and in and out and in and out of the house. First it was “I’m hot”, then “I’m thirsty”, then “I gotta pee”, then “I’m going to be in the backyard” and so forth. I told myself, the next time they came in, I was just going to call it a day and shut the door behind them. And yet, they didn’t cross in front of the house for a while. For about 15 minutes, I didn’t hear anything, which, when you have a 4 and 2 year old is never good. Just as I get up to go see, I hear Morgan screaming for all her lungs are worth. She is sweating, flushed in the face, and holding her right hand in her left hand as though was broken.
Somehow between the tears and the flying snot and Coever’s reassuring pats to Morgan’s knee and foot (??), Morgan explains that she was running and that she fell down. First of all, ol’ girl is in flip flops and cardinal rule of the flip-flop is that you don’t run in them unless you just are dying to make out with the pavement. Second of all, if she was skidding on pavement, I’m thinking her knees are going to look like she went over them with a cheese grater. And yet, everything looks like it did when she left. So what’s the problem?
“My haaaaaaaaand,” she wails, offering up her dirty palm where there is the tiniest road rash and dangling flap of skin. I’m talking dime sized scrape here. She’s acting like she’s got a rib poking out of her side.
So we march upstairs to the bathroom where I proceed to run her hands under the faucet. Cold water + small wound = more screaming. Despite my calm and my maternal doting, she wasn’t having it. When I pulled out the witch hazel and a cotton ball, she hollered like I was coming after her with a meat cleaver. The little skin flap that was covering the wound had dirt and grit in it; it had come come off. I reached for the tweezers and Morgan yells — “NO!! NO!! Not the tongs!!!”
Oh, my poor, sweet girl. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Tongs? I guess from her perspective, that’s what they must look like. Still, I’m trying to be Florence Nightengale and she’s looking at me like I’m Mola Ram. Seriously, Morgan opened her mouth and gave a big “Waaaaahhhhhhh”.
Suffice it to say, we got the boo-boo all cleaned up, put on the Neosporin, and topped it off with a Princess Tiana band-aid (of course). And she carried on throughout, but as soon as that band-aid was in place, Morgan clapped her hands together gleefully, turned to Coever and said, “Let’s go back outside!”
So they went.
And I shut the door behind them.
