It's true. I'm not afraid of blood or scrapes or anything like that. But when Baby A needs someone to tend to a wound, it usually isn't me.
For background, our wounds come from us being clutzy. We trip, we fall, we run into things that are in plain sight, etc. Seriously, grace was not a feature given to us.
Take last night, for instance. A certain other twin decided to go and get into a bike accident. Baby A swears her bicycle malfunctioned, something about her front fender that was loose catching her tire and sending her flying. She's fine, no broken bones, no concussion, no things of that nature. Just a small bit of road rash on her side, and a couple of bruises, and a twisted fender that is now sitting in our room. I WAS NOT WITH HER. (You see what happens when you let your twin out of your sight? She goes and falls off her bike).
So she gets home and she is limping and has a slightly funny look on her face.
Baby B: "What's wrong?"
Baby A: "There may or may not have been a bike accident..."
And she proceeds to tell me that I need to help her clean up.
I run and get our friend, who was with Baby A when she went ahead and crashed her bike.
Baby B: "You need to clean Baby A's road rash for me. I can't do it."
Friend 1: "Why?"
Baby B: "Because I can't hurt her. It makes me feel like my soul is ripping in half."
(That's a pretty painful sounding thing, right? 'CAUSE IT IS).
And it's true. Mom always had to take care of the other one's wounds for us.
And there was this one time on the track, it was epic. Baby A tripped and slid across the finish line (and still got 3rd) in a race. I couldn't watch the med people pick the gravel out of her shoulder.