CURSE OF THE BANDAIDE
I knew the corruption of my children still had lingering affects when Kristjana called me the other day. “Mom I hurt myself. I have a huge blister. It popped and now it’s bleeding. I have no Band-Aids and it’s your fault.”
“Kristjana you are a big girl now you can buy Band-Aids.”
That’s not the point mom. I know I am adult but the fact that I have no Band-Aids is your fault.”
Of course it was my fault. I was a regular fault line. I wonder if this is how George Bush was beginning to feel.
Kristjana was still blathering. “I called my friend to tell him I had no Band-Aides and he wanted to know why. I said it was because when we were little if we needed a Band-Aide we had to go through the General.”
I started to laugh. Kristjana spewed on. “Who is the General?” he asked. “My mom.” I replied. “You had to write an essay about the wound, explaining why you needed a Band-Aide and then give it to her for inspection. Before I showed her my wounds, if I thought she would say no to a Band-Aide I would pick at my sore and make it a little worse.”
I was laughing hard now but her little rant was still going on.
“Guess what he said, Mom. ‘Were Band-Aides a luxury item in your house?’”
I was laughing so hard I had to sit down.
“The reason I don’t have any Band Aides, Mother, is because you made me learn to live without them. Well, I want you to know I finally broke down and bought some. News Flash, they don’t cost that much.”
I stopped laughing long enough to respond. “That is because you are not papering the walls with them Kristjana.”
Once I had grandchildren, I actually tried to reform my heartless ways. I bought several thousand of the sticky little things. I gave them out like they were cotton candy and then counted slowly to ten as I walked around the house and yard constantly picking up the wrappers.
The day I went outside and found Sponge Bob, Looney Toons, and every Disney Character ever invented paving my driveway was the day I marched into the house, grabbed my Generals hat, a stack of paper and pencils and re-opened triage. I am damned to a life of guilt.