You can't just slap a bandaid on it

R.J. loves his gymnastics class. He's a cheerleader, applauding for each of his classmates. He gets his weekly affirmations in: "I did it!"  He loves his Coach Becky: "I gonna see my friend Coach Becky."

Last night was no exception.  He danced (we never miss the opening dance--being late is not an option with a little one who loves to shake his boom boom).  He tumbled and balance beam-ed. He ziplined. In fact, he's kind of famous for his ziplining.  Parents go to window to watch. Other kids stop tumbling to stare. R.J.'s classmates zipline like ballerinas: toes pointed to the floor, perfectly poised for a perfectly graceful landing. R.J., well, he turns the world upside down:

When he laughs, the gym laughs with him. It's refreshing to see someone enjoy himself so very much. And so, when R.J.'s grins turn to tears during his 'nastics class, the gym sympathizes. Parents watch with worried eyes, and little ones ask why R.J. is sad.

Last night on the trampoline, R.J. re-scraped a boo-boo. And the tears flowed. Not so much because of the boo-boo but because of the bandaid prospect. The child is terrified of bandaids ("dandaids"). Dandaids are not something to show off. They are not fun--even when stamped with Chick Hicks and Lightening McQueen.  R.J. wanted his blankie. He wanted his own house. He wanted sympathy. So, mommy carried him to the car, and we made the short trip home.  Mommy bribed (a Hot Wheels--of course).  Mommy cajoled and pleaded: "Please don't cry baby. Mommy has to clean your boo-boo." Mommy sympathized.

Because today, Mommy had to face her own dandaid demons: the dreaded glucose screening--ie, another blood test. Two failed attempts in the bag, and Mommy returned one more time. Mommy's hands shook--just like R.J.'s did last night when she fixed his boo-boo. Mommy wanted sympathy. And her blankie. 

We survived. Mommy with a blue armband that says "I did it!" R.J. with a Lightening McQueen dandaid. This morning, he noticed his dandaid: "Hey MomMY," he whispered, "Look at my dandaid. I a big boy!" 

Mommy is a big girl. It's hard to see my baby tremble over a skinned knee and the prospect of a bandaid. It's harder to watch when I see so much of myself in him.  As a mom (and a lawyer), I strive to make it all better for my baby (and my clients). Sometimes I wish I could just slap a bandaid on the problems. But, as R.J. will tell you, a bandaid isn't always the answer.  I see so much of myself in my little one, and I wonder exactly how to set the example that so very clearly should be set. This is one problem I can't make all better. I can't just slap a bandaid on it, but I'm at a loss to solve it.  All I can do is my best to sympathize and empathize. I continue to stock Hot Wheels surprises in the cupboard and keep blankie clean and within reach. And I hope that in time, my R.J. will overcome his fear of dandaids and continue to turn the world upside down with unmitigated toddler joy.