On the visibility of pain

On Thursday night the angel (behaving very unangelic) was holding a mug and in his goat like climbing all over the counters in the kitchen, he fell. The mug smashed in his hand and left him with small cut.

He cried and cried when he saw the blood. I washed it off, and put some gauze on it. Taped it up and then I cut the toe out of a baby sock, made a thumb hole and pulled it over his hand so he couldn't see any of it anymore.

The next day it was a clean pink line of sealed over skin. But taking the gauze off prompted another round of wailing. He cried and cried until a plaster was stuck over it and the sock replaced. For the record, he dropped a framed picture and wooden bowl on his head later in the weekend and has some nice big bumps and a scratch on his forehead that looks nastier than the healed cut on his hand, but we didn't even need to do anything about those but give him a kiss. Why? because he can't see them!

I thought I was some kind of parenting genius until I realised that the sock had become a problem in and of itself.
He wore that sock all weekend until I made him take it off to have a proper bath. (He cried again)

Our hurts change as we get older, but I think we still do this. Cry over our nothings just because we can see them. Maybe there is some deep meaning there, but mostly this is a lesson to me. About making sure that my first aid kit is always present and prepared, because I am the mother of my own children - and that means that they are going to be naturally accident prone for most of their lives and combined with Kyle's adventurous daring that equals constantly bruised legs, arms and skulls.

I have been interstate visiting family, and now I have a cold, but I do have some art coming so this blog will get back to business soon - with less of my general ramblings and more of my arty ramblings - promise. 

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