ouch.

When a child is injured they experience so much more than an adult. Or rather, they verbalize all of these emotions. Recently I was teaching young children how to make their own candles, and a young boy burnt himself.  In hysterics, he presented his knuckles and I selfishly abandoned my concern when I realized what had at first appeared to be horrible blistering was in fact only red wax.

I have been thinking about this young boy for weeks since, and comparable stories of my youth. I can very distinctly recall crashing my bike and running to my father for help, only to be sent into another panic concerning the outrageously painful antibacterial spray he used.

I swear to you, this ancient aerosol can must have been some medication which was handed down from generation to generation- and mercilessly never emptied. The can looked as though it were manufactured in the 60s, slightest bit of rust on the edges. When it was removed from the shelf is made a slight crack and left a ring of dust (although it was used weekly in my youth).

How odd that now I take a contradictory masochistic approach to the tending of my ails. As far as I am concerned: either my pleasure in these antibacterial pains came about when I became older an embittered, or somewhere in a subconscious core I am going through the same need for sympathy and help and subsequent misery in the burn of cleaners.

I wish to God that I had a picture of this can.