Missing: One Band-Aid

When Z woke up from her afternoon nap with red marks scattered across her face, I decided it was time to play beauty parlor and clip her nails. As parents well know, clipping a baby's nails is like trying to herd cats, but I had managed to trim her nails to a respectable, non-werewolf length when we had "the incident."

The nail clippers claimed to be baby safe. They even had a little plastic guard to prevent moms and dads from clipping the end of their babies' fingers off, but they never included me in the test group.

I had just finished clipping her thumbnail when Louie the Lip burst onto the scene. Z's lower lip jutted out. Her eyes crinkled up like plastic wrap and her entire head turned crimson.

Wa!

That's when I saw the drops of blood dripping from her thumb. Boy, did Mommy feel bad. Nineteen bloody cottonballs later, we realized that Zora still had a thumb. Per the nurse's instructions (yes, I called the pediatrician), I dotted some Neosporin on her thumb and placed two of the world's tiniest bandaids on her thumb. By bedtime, she had forgotten the whole incident. I gave her a kiss and flicked off the lights and closed the door, listening to the sound of her slurping on her fingers.

The next morning I found one bandaid stuck to the mattress. The other was nowhere to be found.

"Did you eat the bandaid?" I asked Z.

She offered me a gummy grin.

I've given up looking on her clothes and started looking in her diapers.