It’s been raining. And raining. And today, it’s supposed to SNOW! (Translation, for those who don’t live in Georgia: The forecast is calling for ten flakes of snow mixed with our rain. BATTEN DOWN THE HATCHES AND CLEAN OUT THE GROCERY STORES!)
There’s an interesting chain reaction that happens ’round here when we cannot go outside to play. First, Monkey gets a little… ummm… tense. Monkey is sort of like a human border collie; we often joke that he’s fine as long as he’s allowed to carry heavy things and run and feel useful. On a rainy day when he can’t adequately disperse his energy, he morphs into LITTLE BROTHER personified. In other words, he tries to get his kicks by repeating everything we say, poking his sister, following people around a mere centimeter behind them, and doing the backstroke in the middle of the kitchen floor.
It’s cute. For about a second. Then it’s rather trying.
Chickadee’s reaction to these trying times with Monkey is to do something to get back at him for aggravating her, even though HE is not being malicious and SHE… maybe just needs to chill out a little.
All of this is to say, before lunchtime yesterday, Monkey was ricocheting around the house and Chickadee was spending some quality time alone in her room. Ahem.
[Dear Weather Forces: If you’re going to snow, then just SNOW. Like, preferably about a foot of snow. Enough to bury the children in would be an excellent bonus, though, so knock yourself out. Thanks! Love, Mir.]
It’s generally just Not A Good Day when no one can go outside, is my point.
So when I heard a keening wail from upstairs I may have sighed, and squared my shoulders, and called up, “No. NO! If you’re having a problem, please come TELL me about it CALMLY.”
Monkey came racing down the stairs, so upset he was actually shaking. “ICUTMYFINGERREALLYBAD!” he blurted. A quick once-over verified that he wasn’t gushing blood, or anything, so I took the offered hand and surveyed the damage. It looked to me like a popped blister—a disturbing flap of skin, but no actual blood.
“Ooookay, honey,” I said slowly, in my best soothing voice, hugging him close to try to calm him down. “Breathe. Breeeeeeeeathe. You’re okay. I think maybe you just rubbed a blister off. You’re going to be just fine, and we’ll go get a band-aid for it, okay?”
He nodded, still twitchy and wild-eyed, and I was (stupidly) still trying to figure out why he was so freaked out when I remembered that he’d been inside all day and was already a big bundle of nerves. Clearly my mission here was to calm him down even more than it was to bandage the finger, right? So I held on to him and made him walk with me over to the band-aids, and kept talking to him in a soothing, low voice, and when I got to, “And you can choose which band-aid you want! Let’s see, there’s flames, and camouflage, and—”
“JUSTPICKONE!” he wailed. “IT STIIIIIIINGS!!!”
I picked one. Once he was wrapped up and no longer acting like an overwrought junkie, I sent him back upstairs, and a minute later the entire event was ancient history (to him, anyway).
We finished off the day with several rousing rounds of Mario Kart on the Wii. That seemed to help.
Which is totally why I have allowed the children to play Wii ALL MORNING. Because they can’t go outside, and because the chances of injury while doing so seem pretty low. Hey, desperate times call for desperate measures, and when a kid doesn’t even want to pick his own band-aid, THOSE ARE DESPERATE TIMES.