Answer me this: What's with kids and bandaids? I taped up about a half-dozen blisters on my daughter's feet yesterday afternoon. She was rapt. And then, she asked for more. She's 17 and coulda easily put them on herself. She usually does. But as I was applying salve to her boo-boos, I was also nursing a case of mother guilt. I can't seem to buy the right shoe to accommodate her wide Hammett toe box and her narrow Goad-Walker families' heel. I have her fitted, shell out bucks and purchase good shoes, and they tear up her tootsies. (She also insists on tearing out the insoles of her shoes and going sockless.)

Our history with bandaids has morphed over the years, according to Grace's languaging abilities. Each word–her ability to connect brain to tongue was a victory. First came "hurt." Then "hurt" accompanied with showing us the wound. Pointing is BIG with autism. I mean REALLY BIG. It does not come naturally and has to be learned. Word + pointing. BIG DEAL. At some point she threw in "boo-boo." And then she arrived at bandaid only to pronounce it "bondaid." I have a persistent child. It is both endearing and annoying. I furrow my brow, lean forward and keep repeating "What?" and trying approximations of the word until…DOH! I get it: bondaid = bandaid. Got it. She's happy. Not just for the prize bandaid but that she communicated and I understood.

 As I opened each bandaid yesterday, applying one after another, a pile of paper strips formed on the floor next to me. I looked into her face. Still a little chimpmunk-ish from last week's wisdom teeth removal. All the while, as I tickled her then and again, as I shared her grins and giggles, I thought about the juxtaposition in front of me. This woman-child. My daughter. And though she was trying, she couldn't quite contain her joy. Every cell exclaimed: "Oh! Bandaids!"  Err, I mean: "Bondaids!"

Photo copyright: LeisaHammett.com, 2009; (composed in October after wisdom teeth removal).