We were running late yesterday at lunchtime, and hurried out to the car in order to pick up Child Number Two at kindergarten.
"Don't run in your crocs-- they're still a little too big for you!!" I hollered after Child Number Three, who was barrelling top-speed down the path towards the driveway.
She tripped, and neatly face-planted onto the pavement, scraping up her poor little hands and knees.
As we were already late, and the kindergarten teacher firmly frowns upon parents who are so much as one nano-second tardy for pick-up time, I cuddled the still-weeping two-year-old into her carseat, cleaned her scrapes with a couple of diaper wipes, and promised band-aids once we returned home with her sister.
Child Number Two was FULL of sympathy when she heard of the accident, held her sister's hand and made soothing promises of TLC all the way home in the car. She promised to dab on the Polysporin and bandage the knees herself (boy, that kid is great in a crisis, so long as she isn't actually the CAUSE for a change). Child Number Three immediately calmed right down, satisfied that she would be extremely well cared for and coddled for the remainder of the afternoon.
As we were going through the door and heading towards the kitchen, Child Number Two requested the massive first aid kit that I keep up on a high shelf. I handed her the box, and told her to be careful...
Child Number Two: (awed by the responsibility) Wow!! Look at ME!! It's like... I'm her personal VETERINARIAN, or something!!