Brennyn has this horrible habit of late of grabbing onto my boobs, pinching them and giggling “Boo Boo’s!”
Kaya laughs, I wince, and we both tell her, “No, those are boobies!” B nods, smiles mischievously, repeats ‘boobies’ only to later pinch them again and insist “Boo Boo’s!”
The girl knows what a real boo-boo is. In fact, she is somewhat obsessed with boo-boo’s.
Once she gets one (and oh she gets a lot), she reminds me and anyone else in her near vicinity all about it over and over. And over.
Wait, do you see anything there? No, me neither.
Because she has the wrong leg!
Then just when we are in a boo-boo free zone, a certain father loves a certain pair of pink checkered Vans that are most certainly too small… Determined, he crams her feet inside and B ends up with her very first blister. Scrapbook-worthy first don’t ya think. Brennyn will no doubt bring it up in therapy one day. Even though she’s two and should not remember, she will. Because she has reminded me about once an hour for the past two weeks about this bloody boo-boo.
To be fair, it does look painful. Daddy. But I am tired of kissing it. Every day B points it out with a whimper. Every day I contort myself down to kiss her heel. Every day it does not heal fast enough.
Unlike Kaya, Brennyn does not like bandaids on. Kaya does not like not having a band aid on. The other day I’m pretty sure it was a growing pain in her thighs that she was complaining about of which I apply a Hello Kitty bandaid in attempts at stopping the whines.
Oh the whines.
Actually while we’re on the topic, allow me my own will you?
I too have a boo-boo. On my elbow. You want to know how I got the most annoying booboo that scrapes on everything and keeps oozing puss and blood?
Oh yes, Brennyn started parent and tot gymnastics last week. Mostly the kids jump and balance and swing but I thought, well, I’m here, why can’t I try too. So I do. Modelling for B the ‘Pencil Roll’. Simply put, stretch out body straight and roll. Somehow in my execution of said complicated gymnastics contortionist move, I give myself a rug-burn style boo-boo.
This pretty much sums up any attempt I have ever done on any sport in the history of my existence.
Enough boo-boo’s for a big ol’ pile o’ doo-doo. Or poo-poo? My girls would love this post…
Anyways, while I write this, Bal is in a bike race. Being the only one left boo-boo-less, I hope I have not jinxed him…
Dear Victoria Kann, author of Pinkalicious and series,
Booboolicious should be next. (Not to be confused with boobielicious, though that could get you a whole new demographic!)