Boo Boo Zone

What is the quickest way to ensure your child has a mishap? Dress them up! Nice clothes attract misadventure – it’s a proven fact. So, after allowing Muffin to wear a dress and tights to school yesterday I shouldn’t have been surprised to find her in tears when I picked her up.

Muffin was sitting alone, despondently poking at some Lincoln Logs when I came to pick her up. I could tell that she was in the zone. The Boo Boo Zone. And let me tell you, when Muffin goes into the Boo Boo Zone, she lingers. She wallows. She savors every shuddering teary breath. And it lasts for HOURS – literally hours. She was still going on about her boo boo when I tucked her into bed.

(Where in the wide world of sports did my daughter get this drama gene? She was a hot mess. Bless her little heart I know exactly where she gets the “does not cry pretty” gene because let’s face it, fair skinned freckly people tend to get red and blotchy when the tears come so, sorry Muffin – Mama owns that one.)

Turns out she had a little accident and fell down while playing outside. Twice. On the same knee. The first coherent words out of her mouth were “I went to the bathroom to pull down my tights and look at my boo boo and,” here she paused for effect “there was blood” she finished in a horrified whisper.

I knew, then and there that this was going to be a long one. One quick look was enough to let me know that she was in no danger because whatever blood she had seen had not even shown up on her white tights.

She limped out of Kindercare and to the car and when we got in she explained “the reason why I’m walking that way is because of my boo boo and it really hurts when I straighten my leg.” This announcement was followed by more tears and sniffles. The 20 minute ride home was punctuated by exclamations of pain, lots of tears and (to my jaded ears) forced, fake crying. She was well and truly gone - oblivious to everything except the performance.

Once at home I asked her to go and take off her tights so I could examine the boo boo. This exercise was met with fresh tears and moans of pain. There she sat, on a little chair in her room, bereft of tights, sobbing hot tears of misery. I took a look. THERE WAS BARELY A SCRATCH! BARELY!! No blood! Just red welts that, perhaps to a six-year-old, may have been confused for blood. Regardless, I whipped out my secret weapon – a Dora Band-aid.

Once the band-aid was applied her mood perked up a little. She still limped dramatically, but on the whole the tears where gone. I was messing about on the computer when she came over, sat next to me, put her head on my shoulder and stated “My boo boo hurt as much as my heart would hurt if you died.”

What the French toast? My daughter has gone all EMO at age six? (dammit, I knew my love of 80’s alternative rock would come back to haunt me) When I tucked her into bed I said that I hoped her boo boo would feel better the next day and she nodded, sniffing tearily.

And you know what? No mention of it today. We’re talking over three hours of red-welt-induced drama last night and today – gone! Poof! She is as changeable as the weather. Bless her little heart.