scrapes ovenbird When my phone rings and I see "school office" on the screen my brain conjures at least 73 possible tragedies in the split second it takes me to answer. Today the call is about my daughter, who was tripped by a classmate while running laps outside during gym class. I can hear her in the background crying, refusing a bandaid because she hates having to take them off later. She wants to come home but I figure I should assess the damage first. So I pack a Ziploc bag of soft damp washcloths and a change of clothes and walk to the school. I find her in the lobby, tear streaked and bloodied. She has battled the concrete and lost, it seems. Her elbow is bleeding, her knee is torn up, and there is gravel embedded in her palms. She won't let me clean her scrapes (nothing in the world is soft enough for this). She starts screaming the second I'm within wiping distance of her elbow. She insists she can't get through the rest of the day and I'm about to relent and bring her home when I remind her about freezie_friday. She suddenly stops crying and latches on to this reason to persist. She limps back to her classroom, face dirty, pants torn and I watch as her classmates rush to help her. A friend gets her lunch, another brings her coat for recess. She is suddenly surrounded by all these sweet concerned faces asking if she's okay and I know immediately that she is. She is okay because someone cared enough to ask. She is okay because a scraped knee is no match for tender hearted concern. That stuff beats bandaids any day. 250523 what's it to you? who go blather from