So when we
come to pick up H at the nursery and a member of staff takes us aside and needs
to tell us what has happened before we see Little H, we’re calm as cucumbers.
What is the worst that can happen? As long as she is not pulling other kids
hair or giving them bruises, a bit of “self-harming” can only make her
stronger.
Little H is
now an expert (she thinks) at walking the stairs, and since her mantra these
days are “I can do it myself / klare selv”, and due to her robust nature we let
her climb up and down while we watch her with ice in our tummies.
The other
day she fell down the front door stairs. It is only two steps down, but they’re
made of concrete and stone with gravel at the bottom. I did not see it happen,
but heard Little H cry, and it was not a pretend-to-be-hurt cry as it usually
is. It was more of an I-am-in-pain-and -shock cry.
I was the
first on the scene and swiftly picked her up from the ground. I started
scanning her body for outwards injuries and what I found was some scratches
from the stones and a rather nasty cut on her temple. She was bleeding, but rather quickly soothed
by all the attention she got from myself and her grandparents.
I cleansed
her cut with cottonwool and water and soon she was very into cleaning it
herself and the cries of pain had transferred into the moany sniffering she can
be so good at. All clear.
When we got
back out in the drive-way, Amama Socco was stamping her ballerina shoe clad feet
on the place where H fell and saying: “Malo, malo, malo, malo (malo = bad/
naughty)” to the gravel. It was rather like a native American rain-dance for me unknown to such a ritual. Little H
quickly got into the game of blaming the stairs and the gravel by shouting the
same: Malo, malo over and over again.
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