The Agony of a Scraped Knee

Today our park time ended with a disaster of the earth ending sort when Coryn scraped her knee. I had brought along some bubble solution and some of the wands I had left over from our Bubble Park Party a few weeks ago.

At first everything was going along swimmingly. I would send out clouds of bubbles, wafting on the breeze. She would chase them down and giggle gleefully as they popped at her finger tips. Then she tripped onto all fours and came up bleeding and screaming. It was just a tiny scrape with red blood beading up through the surface, but apparently Coryn had no frame of reference for blood. She screamed. And screamed. And then she stopped screaming and started sobbing. I dabbed it with a wet wipe. That made it worse. She screamed louder. I produced a band-aid. She was convinced it would bite. She screamed harder, pushing it away. I held her hands away from her knee with one hand and stuck the band-aid on with the other. The screams had now reached a “Save me! This woman is trying to kill me!” pitch. I blew more bubbles. They brought her no joy. I made soothing noises and offered to kiss it to make it better. Nothing worked, though with me avoiding the “gaping wound” itself, she subsided to mournful gasps and whines.

Matt, who had said he would join us after he ate, meandered out, the last few bites of sandwich in his hand.

“Scraped knee,” I winced.

“Are you just going to let her keep screaming?” he asked, not very helpfully, I thought.

“She's hurt,” I pointed out. “She's never scraped her knee before.”

“You know, this just proves that you are coddling her too much,” he said, again, not very helpfully, “if this is the first time she has scraped her knee.”

He then decided to be helpful. He blew Coryn some extra large bubbles and she stopped crying to watch. After a few minutes I breathed a sigh of relief. Then I realized her band-aid had come off and was sitting in a puddle of bubble water.

“Show Daddy your war wound,” I said playfully. Coryn, apparently, has no sense of humor where pain is involved. The memory of her agony came flooding back to her and she started screaming again. We swiftly packed everything up and carried her inside.

Matt insisted on putting hydrogen peroxide on the wound, so after that we sat on the couch in a family cuddle while she shook with rage and fear and all the emotions associated with a betrayal of the “you poured stingy stuff on me!” nature.

“What an awful owie,” Matt soothed. “You should get the purple heart for this.”

I read her “I Am a Bunny,” and she calmed down. Matt walked away, and she looked up at me expectantly.

“Purpoh heart!” she demanded.