Accident Prone

In the last 24 hours Piper has accumulated two skin knees, three bumps on her head, one nasty papercut, and a monkey bar “incident” that’s far too gruesome to share in polite company. She plays hard. It shows. We always buy the jumbo pack of band aids.

Tonight she was rubbing an itchy eyeball and worried outloud if maybe she didn’t have pink eye again. “You don’t have pink eye, Piper. You never did,” I told her.

“Justin said I did.”

“Justin’s wrong. You didn’t have pink eye.  Remember I took you to the doctor three hours before our flight and had you checked? The doctor said it wasn’t pink eye.” Which is also what I told Justin’s dad when he hunted me down in the parking lot post holiday to let me know that Piper had spread pink eye to his whole family and ruined their vacation. I assured him that we’d share our germs some day, but we couldn’t take credit for this particular virus.

“Did I get a Zebra pack?” In Piper speak a Zebra pack means Z-pak antibiotics. It’s a mystery to her why the doctor is always mentioning her favorite zoo animal.

“You didn’t need one, P. You didn’t have pink eye.”

“How about a black eye? Do I have one of those?” Piper asked.

“Not right now you don’t.” I knocked on wood for good measure.

“I sure get a lot of black eyes. Wish they had a Zebra pack for those.”

For once, we agree.

Superglue to the Rescue

Does this look like a place Piper should be playing?

Is it the steep, winding stairs or the potential to plunge to one’s death that attracts Piper? Probably both. How about this?  Does she need to do this?

Why can’t we just visit her sister’s classroom without Piper climbing into a hallway locker? Because she’s Piper.  She’s a risk taker. A brave and crazy soul sent here to test my sanity. She spends most of her day inventing ways to hurt herself.  I spend most of my day keeping her alive.  I’ve lost count of the number of black eyes she’s had.  She’s so banged up and bruised most of the time people give me funny looks in public. I’d have more pictures but I’m busy catching her.  I’d like to stuff her in a little bubble but I know she’d figure out a way to escape or to burst the whole thing.

Rather than running her to the ER for stitches once a week, I bought this:

Now I just superglue her boo boos.  I keep some extra in the car for on-the-go death plunges. But I still have to ask.  As if it’s going to help me much.

“Piper, why do you hurt yourself? Can’t you try to be a little more careful?”

“Well, you see, there’s lots of things in the world and I like lots of space so I can twirl around.” She danced straight into a wall to demonstrate. “And one more thing. I’m little. And I think stuff jumps out at me.”