The Pitfalls of Magic Saliva

When I was pregnant I assumed that in the delivery room a sense of motherliness would come over me. That as they pulled the girls out, a cloud of knowledge would descend and all of the sudden I would be able to open jar with a single twist and know what to tell my kids when they inevitably ask me if I have ever done drugs.

Perhaps because I chickened out and had the girls via c-section (8 hours of pitocin, no dilation at 39 weeks), but that cloud never descended. But what I have found is that they do not know any better and I can make stuff up! I haven't yet used this power for evil or fun like Calvin's dad but I must admit that I pull it out to make the day run a little smoother.

Enter the magic saliva. You know how it goes, a kid falls down and runs to her mom to kiss it and make it all better. What's not to love? And how can I not abuse it slightly? After all it's easier to quickly kiss a skinned knee than to stop and find a bandage. And they take my assurances that it doesn't hurt any more like gospel.

The problem is that now they want kisses all the time: I bumped my elbow, kiss it! My head hurts, kiss it! Ow, my leg, kiss it! Like a Beatle, I fear being torn to bits by their need. And medicine, well unless it bubble gum flavored, they don't understand why they can't just have kisses.

Now I know, this power to make shit up must be used judiciously. Like telling them that soda, like beer and wine, is for mommies and daddies only.