Band-Aids Please

It occurred to me last night that I used to love Band-Aids.  I don't know why or how, but somewhere in that infinite hour in which it took me to fall asleep this thought just popped into my head.  I used to want a bandage for everything.  I don't know why that was, but I needed one.  If I had a paper cut: Band-Aid.  If I scraped my knee: Band-Aid.  Sliver: Band-Aid.  The list goes on.

Of course, my mother never wanted to give me Band-Aids.  My injuries were never serious or life-threatening, therefore didn't warrant the use of a Band-Aid.

I thought they did.

I helped out in my little sister's preschool class over winter break.  One of her male classmates came into school at eight o-clock already decked out with six fingers full of bandages.  They were bright, colorful little strips that reminded me of litmus paper from my high school chemistry class.  Man, that kid was lucky.  He clearly didn't need those Band-Aids.  What could a three-year-old possibly do to his fingers that deserved all those bandages?

What's worse are the five minutes that followed him.  He began to play and have fun with clay and, of course, the bandages didn't hold up.  Or so he said.  As I watched him peel off each and every bandage and throw them in the garbage, I remember thinking: what a waste.  For one thing, there were no noticeable injuries.  For another, the Band-Aids were, in fact, plenty sticky and would have lasted for at least another half hour.

Maybe I was jealous.  I never got to wear that many bandages for no reason.  My mother didn't want to waste them.  Then, naturally, I grew up feeling weird putting on a Band-Aid, even when I needed it.  I felt like I was misusing them.  Even though my big-kid injuries would be gushing blood, I would always look at them and wonder if it would be okay to just air them out.

Okay, maybe not "gushing," but bleeding significantly.

Nonetheless, that kid was lucky.  His parents humored him and gave him bandages for every little thing. So did the preschool teacher, for that matter.  I think it was that same day, and this little boy claimed he needed a Band-Aid again.  The teacher humored him and put one on.  Then he said, "that's the wrong finger."  Well, the teacher wasn't upset, but she knew she had been tricked.  She put on a second bandage anyway.

I just stood there watching them.  Then, I thought to myself, what a wimp.  At three, I didn't need a bandage for anything.