I try my best to be understanding with the daycare teachers. They are great with him and I really couldn't ask for better teachers. Besides, I've been there. I've dealt with the overly concerned parents.
So when I saw 2 rather large scratches about 2 inches behind Gabe's ear when I picked him up yesterday, I tried to keep my cool. The teachers hadn't noticed it, but it was pretty obvious that it had bled at least a little bit.
Common sense tells me that he did it to himself. When I looked at his fingernails, although they were short from a weekend trimming, somehow he had gotten a jagged edge on one and it was probably the culprit for this scratch. And I believe the teachers when they told me he never cried. Common sense also tells me that he isn't going to die and it's nothing a little bit of Neosporin after his evening bath won't solve.
But I have to admit, there was a little part inside me that gasped and freaked out at such an indignity on my otherwise perfect child. On the drive home, I mused over this reaction. I realized why it bothered me so much. I know this kid so well. I know every inch of him. Heck, half the time I can't tell you where half my bruises come from, but I know exactly every little scratch on his little body and what caused it. I am more protective of his little body than I am of my own.
As a daycare teacher myself, I always chalked up parent's sensitivities as overprotectivity and while I put on an understanding face, I secretly thought to myself "I'll never be that way with my kid"
Um, hi. Kettle? You're black.
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