Rachel is obsessed with Bandaids. Ob. Sessed. To the point where I have to have a rule in my house: No blood, no bandaid. Otherwise she has a bandaid stuck to her for every bump, bruise, and bug bite. I swear to you, once a fly landed on her and she wanted a bandaid for it. She's happiest when wrapped up in bandages mummy-style.
Let's just say that after our latest actual bleeding episode (her scraped knee) I accidentally left the box of bandaids on the counter, instead of in their box-inside-another-box-inside-a-cupboard-on-the-highest-shelf-mommy-needs-a-stepstool usual spot.
There are now bandaids holding the Rachel together. There are bandaids holding Rachel's bed together. And her toybox. Her dolls all have numerous boo-boos. Her blanket has a Bandaid mosaic on it. The TV's buttons are first-aided to within an inch of their lives. The bandaids on her doorknob are three-bandaids thick.
And there is not a single unused bandaid in the house. Tonight, no doubt, will be the night I cut my finger open.
I really ought to take out stock in the company...