This morning, I told the boys I was going out to get the newspaper. I’m not allowed to even pee alone these days, so of course, the whole gang insists on accompanying me on this important mission. Charlie hopped down the porch steps and took off down the driveway (in PJs, without shoes) going 300 mph, and tripped over his own feet and crashed and burned. “My knee, my knee! Kiss it, Mama! Need boo boo monkey!! Need boo boo monkey!!” I checked out the knee. Little scrape, little blood, no big deal. But I’m not 2½.
I sat Charlie down on the family room couch, and while I searched for our first aid supplies, he screamed for a solid 10 minutes about needing a boo boo monkey band-aid. Finally, after tearing up the house, I found the box of coveted Curious George bandages (which had been, for inexplicable reasons, shoved into the back of the tupperware drawer) and rushed back into the family room, where I found Charlie still whimpering and Zach sitting next to him, now also wailing (but with no tears). Apparently Zach had become “injured” too. “My knee mama! My knee mama! I need a band-aid too!!”
So I handed the boy-who-cried-wolf a band-aid for the phantom injury and he ran off, presumably to stick the bandage in Cooper’s hair or somewhere else it really didn’t belong.
Charlie, meanwhile, was still just beside himself about needing a band-aid. Finally, yellow Curious George band-aid in hand, I got down to business dressing the wound. Charlie started to kick and scream louder. “NOOOO Mama!! Not on knee! On my pants! My pants! Boo boo monkey on my pants!”
What? Whatever you say, kiddo. I stuck the grinning monkey on his pants and he bounced off the couch and took off running. “That good mama! Thanks!” All better.