To a small child, there’s something magical about a Band-Aid. When my daughter scrapes her knee, she can’t wait to ask for one, as if it will instantly take away her pain. She loves Band-Aids so much she’ll request one for any boo-boo: a bump, a bruise, a mosquito bite. Once she gets a bandage, she searches her arms and legs for long-forgotten injuries, which might justify her request for another one.

            Her nursery school teacher has a great rule: No blood, no Band-Aid. I’ve borrowed this line a few times, much to my daughter’s dismay. Then I think, Gee, if it means that much to her, why not just give her a one? So I hand her a Dora Band-Aid and she says, no, that’s not the one she wants. She wants a princess one. Or maybe Hello Kitty. She starts digging through the boxes.

            Life was so much easier when bandages were like lunch sacks--you had your choice of just one color. As my daughter struggles to make her selection, I feel another one of my hairs turning gray. She definitely wants a princess design—but which one? Ariel, Jasmine, Belle or Sleeping Beauty? Decisions, decisions. . . . It’s time to use another one of her nursery school teacher’s lines: You get what you get and you don’t throw a fit.

            It doesn’t help that Band-Aids really are “ouchless” now. Back in the day, children may have liked getting doctored up, but they knew it would hurt later when the bandage came off. This generation will never understand the phrase “Do it quickly, like ripping off a Band-Aid.” In fact, their adhesive is so non-stick, they sometimes fall off within hours (or minutes with a little help). Right away my daughter gladly announces that she needs another.

            Band-Aids bring little ones so much joy, it’s tempting to allow them to plaster their bodies until they are covered in cartoon character graffiti. A friend of mine even gives her daughter Band-Aids as rewards for practicing the piano. How creative, I think. I insist, though, that there be some visible wound before doling out the sticky prize. I’d hate for the Band-Aid to lose its magical healing powers any sooner than necessary. In the back of my mind, I know that someday my daughter’s hurts won’t be fixed so easily. 

            One day my four-year old sat in the kitchen where she had smelled, touched and tasted the spices that I’d added to my Bistro Chicken the night before. It was morning, though, and we were not cooking.
            She stuck out her lower lip, looking sad. “Mom, I have a cut on my lip. I need a Band-Aid.”

            “You can’t put a Band-Aid on your lip,” I replied.

            “Why not?”

            “It won’t stay on, Sweetie.”

            She squirmed in her seat.  “But what will make it feel better?”

            “The only thing that will make it feel better is time.”

            She answered quickly, “Well, put thyme on it then!”

            I laughed, but she did not.

            They say laughter is the best medicine and time heals all wounds. Those words may bring comfort to some people, but in our house, nothing beats a Band-Aid. A princess Band-Aid. No wait. . . .

Your Turn to Comment: What character would you like to see on a band-aid?

          As the mom of a preschooler, I eat more carrots and peas than ever before. The problem is that I’m also eating more Oreos.

            Every mother wants her child to have a healthy attitude toward food and I’m no different. When my daughter asks why she must eat her corn (by the way, how can you not like corn?), I remind her that the doctor said she needs to eat vegetables every day. I say veggies will help her grow big and strong. 

            As someone who pre-baby only ate vegetables if they were toppings on a pizza, I’m doing the best I can. I try to smile when I come face-to-face with my old nemesis, broccoli, so my daughter won’t pick up on my aversion. By some strange twist of fate, she likes the green, mini trees. She squealed and jumped for joy last spring when we cut some from the garden for lunch. I was so proud of her that I actually got out my camera to document her chowing down. You see, I tell myself that feeding my offspring nutritious meals is what “good mothers” do.

            My self-proclaimed status as either a good or bad mother vacillates throughout the day. Put blueberries on homemade waffles, good. Lose patience when daughter asks repeatedly, “Do I have to eat all of my salad?”, bad. This constant rise and fall from greatness takes such an emotional toll! To counteract it, I’ve developed the habit of seeking comfort through food.

            Naptime is when I claim my reward. My daughter will do absolutely anything, though, to ensure that she doesn’t give in to sleep. She sings, chants, and talks to her stuffed animals in her upstairs bedroom while I sit down below in the living room, listening. 

            Ironically, naptime isn’t very relaxing. Gritting my teeth, I flip on the TV and reach for the Oreos. Then I feel guilty. Guilty because I keep the cookies hidden in the pantry. Guilty because I don’t want my daughter to know we have Oreos. Guilty because I know I won’t do anything to burn off these extra calories.

            Food and guilt go hand-in-hand for me. I’ve always had a sweet tooth and I come from a family with weight issues. Therefore, I started young trying to figure out tricks to stay thin. Here are some of my rules: 1) Don’t eat anything unless you absolutely love it. 2) Stop eating when you’re full. 3) Don’t bother eating a slice of chocolate cake unless it’s homemade. (OK. That’s basically re-stating rule number one. I can’t think of anything else.) Although these rules work pretty well if you follow them, none of them assuage my massive Oreo cravings.

            Everyone knows the best way to compensate for consuming too many calories is to exercise. A few years ago my husband and I got on a big fitness kick. We worked out six, sometimes seven, days a week. Even though I kept indulging myself, I lost weight and it was a rush.

            Suddenly my back started hurting. When, on the advice of a chiropractor, I stopped my favorite activity, I gained one pound every month for three months. Then I had a series of sinus infections which kept me home from the gym altogether. To make matters worse, I received a prescription whose side effects included weight gain. Now my pants don’t fit, and I’m stuck in the house with a sleep-resistant toddler and my love/hate relationship with those Oreos.

            Deep down I know these are excuses. The daily ups and downs of motherhood will continue and I need to figure out a better coping strategy. Oreos should be an occasional treat, not the foundation of my food pyramid.

            I look over at my daughter who is sucking on her fingers, even though I keep telling her she’s too old for that. Hmmm. . . Maybe she’s on to something. Sucking fingers equals zero calories.

            The bottom line is, if I ever want to fit into my favorite jeans again, I’d better stop complaining and do something. After all, teaching my daughter the value of exercise is something else a “good mother” would do.

            So, I’m going to lace up my running shoes right now. . .and go for a walk.

            Afterward I’ll reward myself with a cookie. Just one.

            It’s a start anyway.