Three words: Heirloom Dishwashing Liquid. This fine specimen of liquified soap, with which one might cleanse the scum and villainy off of one's dishes – indeed, both fine china AND...
Just when you think your child has really matured, is great at handling a lot of things on his own (not to mention correctly a large portion of the time), and maybe doesn’t actually need you watching him like a hawk all the time, he does something to remind you that yes, he is very much still a little kid.
Take skinned knees, for instance. Or blood in general, really. Jamieson FREAKS OUT at the sight of blood, especially his own. This is understandable, considering that a while back he sliced open the webbing between his thumb and index finger while attempting to secretly open a package with a very sharp pair of adult scissors (blood everywhere, earsplitting screams, attempting to hold his wound shut while we drove him to the emergency clinic, more earsplitting screams at the anaesthetic injections and stitches badly installed courtesy of a rather incompetent doctor, etc…. very very traumatic for him).
But the funny thing is, he can get a minor scrape and barely even notice it… until he notices any pink areas, or, god forbid, droplets of blood. Then all hell breaks loose. I’m not denying the fact that he is actually in pain. As our family is well aware, pain is very relative. It’s just funny how little injuries often don’t bother him unless he sees blood.
So we were at the park last weekend and I didn’t see that anything had happened until I heard him crying. I looked over and he had fallen on the sidewalk and skinned both knees. And that hurts insanely, for sure. I leaped across the playground and sat cradling and rocking him for a few minutes, trying to keep him from looking at his knees. They weren’t bleeding profusely or anything, but they were very pink and I knew that any minute there would be little blood drops leaking through. But he wasn’t having it. Even through his tears, he forced my hands away to look at his injuries. And then I am sure the entire neighborhood heard him hollering and carrying on.
The walk home from the park was long and tearful. I told him that I’d had dozens, perhaps hundreds, of skinned knees in my life. This did not make him feel better! Imagine that! None of my usual jokes or distraction techniques worked very well, either. Eventually, after we got home and got him some band-aids, his daddy was able to get him calmed down.
So yeah.. He’s all mature and doesn’t need our help… until he does. But that’s our job, right?