Tonight after I'd given the boys their bath, I smacked the side of my head on the...wait for it...CORNER of the granite countertop as I bent down to help Noah. The boys are no strangers to my injuries, and as I crumbled into the fetal position clutching my head and moaning (and also wishing someone might get a bowl to catch the brains surely oozing from what had to be a gaping wound), Joey played with his toes and hummed. Yes, really.
Oddly enough, it was Noah who flew to me, wrapped his arms around me and said, "Are you okay?" I was deep-breathing through it, so I wasn't sure if he heard me when I gasped, "No!" Suddenly, he dropped his Eeyore towel. He ran out of the room in a streak of cuteness, and returned to me holding his most prized and valued possession. His icepack.
He held it out in front of his round little tummy, his eyes wide and earnest as he said, "Put this on your boo-boo, Momma. You need it more than I do right now."
Dumbfounded, I did what he asked, all the while thanking God that he'd given me a son so weird he needed his own personal icepack. Because he sleeps with it (yes, really--he has lots of aches and pains that mean he just can't possibly go to sleep at nap time), it was warm and mushy, but the love that came along with it really helped the throbbing in my head to subside.
I think it was overpowered by the swelling in my heart.
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