Begging for Bandages

Kids think a Band-Aid will cure everything. Maybe it's the same logic that tells them that if they cover their eyes, they become invisible. Maybe it's the placebo effect. Or maybe it's the nifty tin boxes. At any rate, my daughter had a Band-Aid meltdown yesterday when she discovered she had PORES. It got me thinking. Have we made our kids so soft?

When I was growing up, my parents didn't routinely stock Band-Aids. Especially not the superhero variety, or the neon kind that can set off an airport X-ray alarm at 50 yards. When we got scuffed up a bit, or had a run-in with the Spanish Bayonet plants in the front yard, we had to do without. My Dad had this infuriating answer to our pleas with a less than satisfying: "God will make it better." I guess they taught him that during his ophthalmologic residency. At any rate, we never bought it, instead shamelessly coveting the cool store-bought bandages, and sucking up to the neighbors we knew HAD them.

Tissues and scotch tape never worked all that well as a substitute. And we certainly didn't get the desired status boost with such hack jobs. Not like when we got to wear a real live Band-Aid.

Somewhere during my impressionable years, my mother apparently got this bizarre idea. It would never work today, but remember this was back in the 70's, when kids (and adults, even) believed in lots of dumb stuff. She told us one day that TOOTHPASTE, dabbed with great ceremony in a circle around the offending "boo boo" would cure it. Faster than God, or a Band-Aid, or amputation, or any of that modern science stuff. Crest was best! She had charisma. She was Mom. And we believed her shameless lies.

We took a lot of abuse for it, sad to say. But we remained loyal believers for many years. My brother even slugged one kid who said it wasn't so. Probably offered him toothpaste afterward, too.

Now I've come full circle, and I understand that they probably DID stock Band-Aids, but just knew better than to make them available to us kids. They practically qualify as a drug. And after a single use, they will borrow, beg, and steal to get more. If you send one of my kids to the closet to fetch a Band-Aid, what returns is something between a mummy and a victim of a killer bee mauling.

The importance and addictive nature of these silly little strips cannot be underestimated. I once picked some up at our corner drug store to cover a line of stitches my son acquired after an unsuccessful attempt to karate-chop a marble windowsill with his forehead. Since then (3 years ago) the corner drug store has taken on a new name: "The place we bought the Band-Aids."

Not "the place we ransacked, screaming at the pharmacist for ipecac," or "the place that Mom picked up some of those cool, squishy fake boobs," or even "the place where we backed the car into a tree." No - that single purchase of Pocahontas Band-Aids was the singular defining occurrence in the history of this particular store. THAT'S how cool these things are. My son will limp for 3 days straight to earn one of these babies. Not always on the same leg mind you, but that kind of determination and focus in a kindergartner is pretty impressive.

In fact, according to my own scientific studies, the average kid will climb 2 ½ feet higher for a Band-Aid than for a cookie. They also seem to have no problem opening the wrapper and applying them, even though adults often struggle with this. If you want to teach a toddler fine motor skills, forget the shape sorter; invest instead in a case of Band-Aids. Remember, though, that Band-Aid shrapnel can be a major annoyance, and with a medium dose of static electricity will be impossible to dispose of until the next major hurricane. It rates right up there with "packing- popcorn in a wind tunnel." Don't say I didn't warn you.

Finally, there's the annoying side effect of Band-Aid scars. By which I mean the gummy residue outline that is completely impervious to cleansers, detergents, and kryptonite, and lasts approximately 3 years (longer if they're scheduled to be in your brother's wedding.) Tar remover doesn't even work, but I hear they're doing marvelous work with skin grafts these days.

Unfortunately, the only successful way to separate a kid from his beloved and hard-earned Band-Aid is to tell him to keep it ON, and not lose it. Ironically, the same goes for underwear. But that's another story.