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I suck as a mother.

Tonight girlchild fell down while playing. Scuffed leg, torn palm...the kind of tear that just lifts a flap of skin and shoves a whole bunch of dirt inside. At first it was hard to inspect since she was crying, of course, so I superficially washed it and patted it dry and put a whole big pile of neosporin on it, then covered with a band-aid. Administered much hug, snuggle, ice, and TV...knowing, of course, that it would need to be scrubbed out but not finding the nerve to do so. Figured out it was superficial only, though, from the absence of blood. Helped her shower and wash her hair (regression to the early days when her hair washings were accompanied by mama singing a particularly appropriate selection from South Pacific, then helped her into pjs. Looked over the new books I got at the school's book fair and the bookstore last night - two Bailey School Kids books and Susan Cooper's The Boggart, then started reading 2X2=BOO!, which was incredibly fun! But I still wasn't scrubbing it out. Chicken me knew that hubby would be home soon....

And he took care of it, as I knew he would. By then, the tears were long-dried, the achy was mostly gone, and the panic was over. But I still ought to have cleaned it out.

Sigh. I missed all of this at sea.

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