I sit amongst a slew of papers, trying to figure out how to merge two desks into one. I want to move one into my youngest daughter's room. I don't need two, especially when she needs one. Pretty simple math.
It's spring break, and I'm using my time to reorganize and purge the back room, which is where we homeschool.
As I sigh for what seems like the hundredth time, I hear him screaming the pain howl. He stumbles into the room, half limping, half hopping, holding his foot mid air with his big toe sandwiched between his thumb and forefinger. His knee precariously misses the door frame.
"Owwwww! It hurtttttssss!"
Immediately, I rise and gather arms and legs onto my lap. "What does?" I try soothing him. He'll have none of it.
"My toe, the big one!"
I kiss it over the sock, and wonder what dirt my six year old has encountered and now graces my lips.
"No down inside," he whimpers and removes his sock.
Inspecting the toe it looks and moves fine, but he cries crocodile tears until I kiss it, on the skin. Playfully, I ask him if he needs a cast. He looks at me, questioningly, and then responds with an affirmative. I tell him he'll need to hobble around on it for awhile. He considers it, and then says, "Well, no, I don't want a cast. I want a new toe."
"Oh," I respond slowly, "Well, I'd rather have you with your regular toe."
He ponders the predicament while I wipe away his tears.
"Yeah, I want that, too." He smiles and then adds, "And, I want a camera!"