Three years ago, Isabelle fell in love with band-aids. What began as a mild fascination with princess band-aids quickly blossomed into a full-blown obsession with adhesives of all shapes, sizes and prints--Tinkerbell, Hello Kitty, Dora, Barbie and Ariel. Even the flesh-colored "adult" band-aids were treated like gold.
Band-aids weren't just to stop the bleeding, they were pain relief. Band-aids brought happiness. Band-aids were fun.
Walk through the house on any given day, and you will find band-aid wrappers strewn about... on the stairs, under the kitchen cabinets, beside the beds.
Earlier this week when I gave myself a deep cut while slicing a carrot, Isabelle flew in from the next room declaring, "I'm here! I'm here! I will get the band-aid!" Upstairs, downstairs in a flash. She insisted on applying it.
Later that evening while we were reading in bed, she wanted to cover a hangnail on her middle finger. Again, she insisted on applying the band-aid herself -- a Cinderella one that she wrapped effortlessly.
Once it was on, she stared at it. "You know," she began. "The problem is that when you put a band-aid on your finger, it doesn't really stay. It slips up and falls off. See? It's moving already!"
Pause.
"And that's why I don't like band-aids."
Band-aid magic lived. Band-aid magic lost.
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