4 (and a half) year old Finn said “Kat can I have a plaster?” 
Shoot. I knew this would happen. I knew he was saying a word. I knew I did not know what this word meant. 

“Maybe. Where does Mummy keep the plasters?” Stalling. Stalling. 

“In the laundry room.” 

Uhhhh. Ok. Um. Start walking towards laundry room. 

“Why do you need a plaster?” Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease. 

“This one is falling off. See?” 

YES! I DO SEE. Success. It’s a band-aid. In Ireland, they are called plasters. 


Goodbye proprietary eponym, hello plaster. Now give me that nasty one and I will put a new one on your (invisible) boo boo. 

“Get the scissors too, Kat.”

What am I doing surgery? What’s next a scalpel? Oh I see. I opened the box of plasters to find a long roll of band-aid.


Which you then cut to size. GENIUS. I’m bringing these back to America when (if?) we move back. I cut the teeniest tiniest strip of plaster and off we went. 
Don’t worry. There are still pre-cut varying size/pattern/cartoon character plasters in Ireland. 


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