“Daddy, look at my foot.”
It was bed time, we were getting things wrapped up, CB had had her last snack—a spoonful of sour cream—then her last last snack—a bowl of yogurt—then her last last last snack—a clementine followed by two more, followed by her last last last last snack—a cup of warm milk. She was holding her belly, laying across my lap, and sticking one foot in the air in the low light of the bed lamp.
I looked at CB’s foot, which had a spot of blood on it. My eyebrows shot up.
“Woah, how’d that happen?
“I dunno. Can I have a bandaid?”
“Sure, hold on, let me look at it first.” I dabbed it and saw that it was a very thin cut. “That looks like a paper cut.” I got up and went for the band aid.
“Yeah, I think I got it on the Flat Stanley book I was reading. My foot kind of bumped into it.”
“We should call you Bloodyfoot the Pirate.”
“Bloodyfoot is not a good name for a pirate. Bloodyhand is, though.”
“Because a hand is easier to clean up and it would heal better.”
“Huh. I didn’t know that went into the whole decision-making process. Here, let me see that.”
“Give me the bandaid, I want to put it on.”
“Ok, I think this one will fit.”
She opened the bandaid and dressed her wound. She stuck the foot back in the air to inspect it.
“You did a good job there. What about Bloodytoe the Pirate?”
She was quiet for a moment, wiggling her toe, her little jaw working back and forth as she pondered this suggestion.