"What are they, Mom?"

Those of us that have raised, or attempted to raise, small children will remember how many bandaids they went through. The most minor insignificant can-barely-see-it scratch warranted a bandaid.  A bruise? Apply another bandaid. Like many parents, we purchased both “basic” and “kid” bandaids. For some reason, we went through the “kid” bandaids faster than the kids were injured. We kept the “basic” bandaids in our bathroom where we hoped to actually find one when we needed it.

Sometimes, though, you would be hard-pressed to find any type of first aid bandage in our house. Last Son was a particular fan of applying bandaids on any part of his body that looked “hurt”. Considering he was generally recovering from some physical injury to some part of his body at any given time, Last Son was a pro at finding and applying bandaids.

One of my “wish I would have taken a photo” moments, was when Last Son was around three years old. Last Son was climbing over some tree branches and wood piled up in the back yard. Of course, he couldn't do anything without at least receiving some minor injury. And this time he succeeded to barely scrape one leg-enough to need, at most, one medium-sized bandaid (if we could have found one in the house). Last Son's first aid decision was a bit more-well, amplified. He ran into the house (see, I told you he wasn’t that hurt) and said he was going to get the “big bandaids”. I called after him that we were out of bandaids. He said he knew where some were. Really? Okay, I figured the Bandaid King would probably know where to find one. I’m thinking he must have found some gauze first aid pads or something. Which might have worked but we were out of first aid tape.  And no, scotch tape, masking tape and duct tape are not suitable substitutes!  (Don’t ask why I know this.)

I could hear Last Son running through the house on his way back outside (again, he was not really hurt).  He burst through the back door.

“See Mom, there's a bunch of big bandaids in your drawer in the bathroom.” Last Son was truly proud of his discovery.

“Um, those aren’t bandaids hon.” This was so hard to say without bursting into laughter.

“Well, then, what are they?” Last Son looked perplexed.

Indeed, what were they?  Was there any way I could answer my toddler’s question with a straight face as I looked at the many mini pads he had stuck and wrapped over his shins and knees - sticky side down of course.  

This was one subject I didn’t really want to tackle at his particular age. Last Son wore them for the next hour or so, until they fell off. I picked up the "used" mini pads off the ground, threw them away.  That evening I drove to the store and stocked up on bandaids, in all sizes, and...more mini pads.