Five-year-old Joseph burst in the backdoor, gasping with sobs that were angry or hurt--I couldn't quite tell. He was sobbing so hard, in fact, that I couldn't make out what he was telling me; I could only catch the phrases "flew up in the air", "smashed on my face" and "bleeding everywhere". At these words, of course, my Momma Radar locked into a fully upright position, yet I was puzzled to see that he was clearly unhurt.
"Joseph," I said calmly, "What happened? You flew up in the air?"
"No," he sniffled. "But I could have."
"But you didn't," I said.
"No. But I almost did," he said, impatient with my reasoning.
So now, it appears, we're crying about the injuries we could have sustained. It may be a long summer.
