Calvin runs ahead of me and stumbles on a step in front of the girls’ school. He manages to scrape his right ankle on the cement.
“Mommy, I hurt myself,” he whines. “I need a bandaid.”
“Well, I don’t have a bandaid with me, but when we get home I can put one on for you.”
Two minutes later: “Mom, I need medicine, too. It really hurts.”
I examine the “wound.” It is a scrape.
Two minutes after that: “Mom, do you still have your boot [from breaking my foot in the fall]? I think I need it for my cut. That will make it better.”
As we get home, I ask, “How serious do you think your injury is, Cal?”
“Very, very, very, very, very serious. Because it really hurts.”