Band-Aids

Call me Mother of the Year.

It's been a busy few weeks. We've been finishing up the moving sequence, renting the townhouse to the most awesome people, and entertaining friends and family. Peanut has been busy keeping up with his latest project: acquiring band-aids.

I realize this is a rite of passage for all children. Amass as many band-aids as possible as badges of honor. I'm certain Nana and Grammy will be happy to share stories of how Evil Twin, Boomer, and I decorated our childhood selves with cartoon adhesives. Peanut, being Peanut, has taken this to the next level.

Not content with merely plastering band-aids on himself for no apparent reason, Peanut has been sprinting across concrete and climbing up brick walls on his knees. He sees bloodshed, he gets band-aid. End of story, at least I thought. I gave the toddler way too little credit. Being an investigative child, he figured out that if the scabs are picked off incessantly, there is cause for more band-aids. Coolest thing ever. I'm in need of stock in band-aids. And new excuses for them. Seriously, how much longer can I possibly pull off "No, really, he does this on purpose"? Or worse, "No, he hasn't figured out this particular cause-and-effect yet"?

I am assured, once again, that this too will pass. After all, no great harm ever came from a couple of skinned knees. Or shins. Or elbows. I figure if he goes for a band-aid on his nose, it's time to be worried. And hand him off to Boomer. Who can tell horror stories. Maybe not.

Call me Mother of the Year.