When my sisters and I were growing up, we never knew where Mom kept the band-aids. To this day I do not have any earthly idea where she stored them. If any of us had an injury that (in our opinion) required a band-aid, we first had to show the wound to our mother. Basically, you had to be :::this::: close to needing stitches and then maybe, possibly, if the planets aligned just right, you could have a band-aid. Ideally, your wound had to be deep enough that she could see your internal organs when she peered into it. If you weren't actively bleeding, you didn't even bother asking for one.
The wound. We are pretty sure she will lose the foot.
If she did agree to dole out an adhesive bandage, she'd say "wait right here" and then go into her bedroom, shutting the door behind her. You'd hear combination locks spinning and deadbolts clanging and vaults opening and then a few minutes later you'd have your band-aid. And if you got it wet an hour later and it fell off . . . fuggetaboutit. You were done.
Now that I have an accident-prone child of my own, I think I understand why band-aids must be kept hidden. For starters, they're not cheap. Currently, I have Batman, Spongebob Squarepants, and Hello Kitty band-aids (of various sizes) in stock. A couple weeks ago, the kid wore some new shoes and was rewarded with a blister on the side of her foot. Now, she continues to insist that she is about to bleed out through this weeks-old owie.
"Mama, can I have a band-aid?" She pointed to the place where the blister once existed and where there was now just a tiny speck of disrupted skin.
"I'll think about it," I replied. (Translation: if we stop talking about it, maybe, for the love of God, she'll forget about it.)
Thirty seconds later: "Mama, I really need a band-aid."
"If you say 'band-aid' one more time you are going to time-out. Seriously."
I was kneeling down to help her dry off after her bath. She cupped my cheeks in her hands and pulled my face close. "Mama, would you just think about giving me a band-aid? Would you just think about that?"
A few minutes later, she was dancing around the living room, a Hello Kitty band-aid stuck firmly to her instep. Sometimes, my sanity is worth more than a band-aid. Makes me wonder about my Mom, though.
Word Verification: Enerma...too close to enema, I'm not going there!