Splinter and Bum Bum

Sofia

 

Every evening when I come home from work I like to take a shower. It's a break between the outside world of work and public transport and the inside world of home and domesticity with you. This evening you decided to join me quickly bringing to my attention that you had a sore foot. We soaped you up but every time I touched the spot under your foot the tears welled up.

 

Under the spotlight of the torch it appeared to be a splinter. As you sat naked on the chair, Daddy decided to remove it with tweezers (not my first instinct after years of suffering at the hands of my mother with a sterilised needle). It's a long time since I've seen you cry so desperately. Big wet tears rolled down your flushed cheeks. You kept pulling your leg away, saying "No, no, no" as Daddy worked the splinter out. I wanted to join you, crying and telling him to stop. I felt overwhelmed by the need to protect you - from the pain, the process and the problem. This was your first experience of a splinter and I was surprised at how such a little thing, and your highly emotional reaction, made my heart feel like it was breaking a little.

 

With the splinter out, we mopped up your tears, encouraging you to practice the deep breathing we have taught you to calm you down. It is such a simple thing but it works. You draw in deep shuddering breathes, repeating it at each spoken request. We breath together and I too feel slightly better now that the worst is over and you have regained some composure.

 

You ask for a Wiggles Band-Aid and then spend the rest of the night telling me that you want to keep it on. For some reason you seem to think that a Band-Aid goes on and then comes off again soon after. As the rest of the night unfolds I reassure you repeatedly that the Band-Aid can go to bed and you can sleep with it on your foot.

 

Chocolate and hazelnut ice cream after dinner and a story about 'Hippo Has a Hat' once you climb into bed makes the splinter a distant memory. I have now read 'Hippo Has a Hat' at least thirty times, so tonight, to get a giggle out of you I highlight the frog's bare bottom and the big bum on the hippopotamus.

 

You find bottoms - bum bums - undeniably hilarious and the smallest mention of them sees you explode into a round of giggles. Your infamous 'bum bum dance' is my favourite thing at the moment. "Look at me, look at me" you cry. "I do the bum bum dance", swaying your delightfully rounded hips from side to side. Morning, noon, or night. Pyjamas, street clothes or naked it doesn't seem to matter. You stand in front of the long mirror my grandmother gave me as a wedding gift and waggle your bottom, looking over your shoulder to catch a glimpse of yourself.

 

Splinters and bum bums. The roller coaster of being your mother, the mother of Sofia the three year old, fills me with joy, even when it makes my heart hurt a bit.