The Band-Aid bandit

There is a fascination in my house with Band-Aids.

They cover up cuts, scrapes, mosquito bites, even the slightest reddish imperfections. They heal us when we are feeling blue and lift our spirits when we need it the most. They are the cure to what ails us in one tiny little strip.

At the supermarket, my son and I spend a good deal of time in the Band-Aid isle, choosing between Snoopy and Bob the Builder. This is an important decision – one he does not take lightly. He picks a box, then changes his mind, staring at it, until he’s ready for a new picture in his hands.

Suddenly he has a boo boo, right there among the anticeptics and cotton balls.

“Where?” I ask.

“Right here,” he insists, pointing to his tiny digit, pristine skin covering little lean fingers.

Determined to open the box, he tries to be convincing. “See it mommy?”

I take his hand in my hand and lift it up to my lips. “Let me kiss that boo boo,” I say.

But this does little to steer his attention away from the box. A mini meltdown ensues and I am trapped. It is only when I take one out, hand over the culprit and let him strip it across his finger, does he calm down.

“Feel better?” I ask.

He nods with a satisfied smile.

As we sink back into the rhythm of supermarket bliss, he admires Charlie Brown on the tip of his pointer.

The score: Band-Aid 1, Mommy 0.

I wipe a tear from his cheek and cover it with a kiss. With this, the little Band-Aid bandit says, “Thank you,” and I feel for a moment, no matter what the score, I am still winning.