kiss a boo boo

Maya, working on a science experiment at the Museum of Life & Science in Durham. 

When he was 2 or 3, Guillermo went through a phase of demanding a band-aid or two, or three, every night at bedtime, whether he needed it or not. Then, as we read books, he would take it off and put it somewhere else on his body and then take it off and put it somewhere else. Inevitably, he'd wake up in the middle of the night a few times a week crying because he couldn't find his band-aid. We stopped buying Superman and Dora Band-aids because they were too expensive and resorted to the plain, brown generic bandages to try to kick his habit. Eventually he gave it up, though I can't remember when.

I was prepared to stop Maya head on if she tried this stunt. Instead, she's come up with a better way to stop the tears after she gets hurt.  Everything with her these days is about "Maya's turn." It's "Maya's turn" to put puzzles together, "Maya's turn" to snap part of her car seat seat belt into place, "Maya's turn" to carry my keys into the gym. Now, it's "Maya's turn" to make her scraped knees feel better. So, after a spill, I pick her up, hold her and tell her she's OK. That's where my job ends. If I try to kiss her boo boo, she stops me. "Maya's turn," and she bends down, kisses her boo boo and is off to play somewhere else.