A few weeks ago, my parents came over to watch the girls while CJ was frantically trying to wrap up the semester’s grading, and I was off running a conference. Towards the end of the day, the girls were playing outside with my folks when Katherine came running downstairs.
“Mom! Mom! Lucy fell, and hit her knee and there’s blood everywhere!”
CJ went outside quickly to find Lucy in tears, holding her leg. She had indeed fallen and skinned her knee on the driveway. (My parents felt really bad; their youngest granddaughter fell and got hurt, ON THEIR WATCH). Katherine, in her excitement, did exaggerate a bit on the “blood everywhere” assessment. The blood appeared to be contained to just Lucy’s knee – nothing was on the pavement, the tree, the lawn, CJ’s car (parked in the garage), or my car (parked 4 miles away).
For the next week, Lucy was very aware of her injury.
Bath-time became a screaming endurance race – she didn’t want to get it wet for fear it would hurt.
Every new person she saw was immediately shown the injury, as well as the large bandage covering it.
The mention of removing or replacing said bandage resulted in another screaming match.
Week two was really a toned-down version of week one. Towards the end of that second week, however, something interesting happened. Her second bandage fell off during the night, and while I was changing her in the morning, Lucy noticed her bare knee.
Lucy: “Daddy, where my owie?”
Me: “It’s all gone. Yay!”
Lucy, with a frown: “No, it’s not gone. Where is it?”
Me: “No really. It’s all gone. Your knee is all healed.”
Lucy, now seriously concerned: “No, it’s not healed! Where is it?”
Instead of trying to fight the good fight with this one, I just let it go. Don’t believe me that your body heals itself? Fine. Uh, the Easter Bunny took your wound. Better check under your pillow, he might left you 50 cents.