What's that? You just heard hysterical screaming? Yeah, that was Laura. See, she had a splinter-a tiny little thing-in her palm, and after several days, it still hadn't worked itself out, and I knew I had to get it out. A nice bath first to soften up her skin, and we were ready to roll. Except that Laura wasn't. I have never met such a strong 5 year old in my life. I COULD NOT unclench her hand. She was screaming and crying, begging me to stop. Not fun. Finally I had to send her to her room so that both of us could calm down. She sat in there, crying that she wished she was six so she could be older and brave.
Eventually she reemerged and we tried again. No dice. I simply couldn't pin her and get it out at the same time. I have to say that splinter-removal is definitely a time when I miss the Army Man. I hate having to do the actual removal and he always handles that, plus the two of us combined are usually strong enough to hold her down. Remember, this is the girl who at nine months old had to have the biggest male nurse in the ER hold her down so the doctor could check her ears. She is strong, she is stubborn, and she is huge wimp. Not a good combination.
Finally my motherly instinct kicked in and I figured out the answer, the answer which is usually the answer to everything with Laura: the TV. We set up camp in front of the TV and she was calm enough to let me poke around for a minute and eventually get it out (or so I hope-I honestly can't tell if I got it or not). Afterward she was proud of herself and her extreme bravery and has been reliving her 'victory' ever since. And after all that, I'll now be dying at age 88 instead of 91.