Chicken got a blister.

Let me ask you something. If you had to pick one of the following words to describe "getting a blister," which would it be?

a) delightful
b) annoying
c) painful
d) shattering

Depending on how many blocks I had to walk in those shoes, I'd place myself solidly between b and c.

Chicken? D. HARD D.

If there were an option e that was basically just a picture of Edvard Munch's "The Scream," Chicken would be picking e.

that's the one

FYI, the following is a partial list of necessary comfort measures when your toddler gets a blister:

1. Admire the blister and say something impressed-sounding about how much that must hurt.
2. Cradle the child on your lap and kiss the entire surface of both feet EXCEPT the spot where the blister is.
3. Make up a song about a little boy with a blister.
4. Apply a band-aid to the blister.
5. Apply medical tape over the band-aid on the blister.
6. Apply soft, cushy sock over the medical tape that is over the band-aid on the blister.
7. Finish your wine in one go.
8. Thank your friend for a lovely playdate.
9. Hold the wounded foot the entire way home while singing the custom boy-with-a-blister song.

Every night for the last week, we've applied a fresh band-aid to the red (now pink) oval of raw skin in the arch of his foot, then taped that band-aid in place with three strips of clear sterile medical tape, then covered the wound dressing with an Elmo sock.

Phase II: Medical tape Please note Buster taking a pre-gnawing position above Chicken's shoe. It's not like I like him eating shoes. I know what's on there. But see I was taking this picture so...

Last night, as Chicken tested out the new dressing, he walked around his bedroom in cotton pajamas, his hair sticking up in the damp post-bath spikes that we call "scary hair."

He stepped normally with his healthy foot, then hop-stepped gingerly, placing weight on only the heel of his blistered one, his toes flexed impressively toward his knee.

He step-hopped in a wide circle around the room, and threw himself onto the orange seat of his soft toddler easy chair. He turned his wide-open face up at me and spoke with the intense breathlessness of toddlers and wartime correspondents.

"Mommy, did you see? Did you see me?
I walked tip-toe on one foot
but not,
not,
not on the other foot!"

"I saw you baby! That's called 'limping,' when one foot is working fine and the other one is a little hurt."

"Oh, Mommy..."

He chuckled, the way he does when I tease him and say that a duck says moo, as if I am an imbecile to be humored.

"It's not limping, Mommy. It's dancing."

I'm just going to go ahead and call that your daily dose of accidental toddler wisdom.

You're not limping.

You're leaving it all out on the floor.

Now get on with your bad self, girl.