Please Don't Call CPS

I think I've failed as a parent. At the tender age of 2.6 years old, Ben and Emma have fallen deep into their first obsession; Nora and I have not only witnessed, but fueled, their problem. It started so innocently, as I suppose these things always do, but it's reached the point where Ben will fling himself from play structures and Emma will direct her tricycle directly into a field of rocks. I watch in horror as my toddlers fill their tiny bodies with bumps and bruises, all in the name of obtaining an an object that is literally trash within a matter of days.

Yes, I must come clean and let the world--or at least the few humans who read this blog--that my children are addicted to band-aids.

I can't place the exact day their obsession began. I do know that they've always loved stickers--the gateway to band-aids. Several months ago, after one unfortunate accident or another, a band-aid was issue; Emma may have slipped on one of Ben's cars, or Ben may have thought he had a normal sized head and scraped the bottom of the counter, like a semi truck that won't quite fit under the overpass. Either way, it was the first time that Bemma had witnessed a band-aid with a picture of one of their favorite cartoon characters; Indiana Jones had never seen such a treasure.They were hooked.

They had been living in the world of 'Toyota' band-aids, competent bandages that got the job done. With the arrival of their cartoon friends they had entered the realm of 'Lexus', where pragmatism is trumped by luxury, where the reality of having your favorite cartoon buddy accompany your healing is like having your car parallel park itself. Do you need your car to park itself? Absolutely not. But is it just about the coolest thing ever? Most definitely. In the same vein, Ben and Emma had tasted the sweet elixir of luxury and were forever altered.

It wasn't long after the first 'Lexus' band-aid that their ever-expanding cognition realized that an 'owwy' equaled a band-aid. Once that connection was made, there was no turning back. Our lives turned into an endless cycle of benign accident, band-aid, benign accident, band-aid, benign accident....

And on the occasions when they actually got hurt, oh heaven help us!

It's gotten to the point now that Emma's complaining of curious internal ailments--the kind for which Nora and I can neither confirm nor deny the presence of a tangible sympton--leaving us no choice but to offer a band-aid to soothe her. I'm at a loss. My daughter is 2years old and she's playing me like I'm a cheap set of golf clubs. What am I going to do when she's 5, 8, 12, and--I can hardly think it--17!!

And Ben, while lacking his sister's subtle sophistication, is just as fierce when it comes to determination. As he's falling to the ground he'll start crying for a band-aid, and will persist--with the fury of a PETA member at a Michael Vick autograph signing party--until he's received the 2 inch adhesive from which all comfort apparently flows.

Everywhere I walk in my house, I find used band-aids. It's gross. And weird. And hilarious. I guess there could be worse obsessions, but I still need some time to process this one.

I'll leave you with two thoughts. If you see Bemma and their faces, arms, legs, elbows, stomach, and ears are covered in band-aids, please don't call CPS. We aren't throwing our children into cacti...they're doing that on their own.

And, if you want to know the perfect Christmas gift for Bemma, look no farther than the drug store, the bandage aisle, to be exact. But remember, the band-aid must have a cartoon, because Ben and Emma have tasted luxury, and they're certainly not turning back.