You would think, wouldn't you, that a mother of 2 children would be past the stage in life where she got skinned knees? Well, apparently, I'm not. Alas, Alas. What's even more frustrating is that it wasn't doing anything exciting or daring. I was walking. Ok, so I was walking balancing a baby on one hip (don't worry, she's undamaged) and a diaper bag on the other shoulder while holding my son's hand. Granted, that's how we travel everywhere nowadays.
So I ripped my pants, skinned my knees and had to impose on a friend for band-aids so I wouldn't bleed all over myself until I got home. I would like to state that I am extremely grateful that we usually don't have to use alcohol to sterilize wounds. Usually. Zowie!
A note to the skinned knee crowd: Bactine is lovely to spray on (ah! no pain!) but the skinned knee (for some perfectly rational chemical reason) starts producing water in large quantities. At least, Band-aids get drenched fairly quickly.
Anyways, I got a lot of sympathy for the day. The Spozo Maravillozo lamented my wounds, but he was almost as upset about the pants. They were his favorite pair. Oh, well. I guess that means I have to search out another pair of pants. I just went through that ordeal a couple of weeks ago and had rejoiced that I wouldn't need to do it again for a long while. I guess I counted my pants before they were patched.
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