Sitting at my desk in the playroom/office, I'm listening to laughter and my boys chatter as they clean up blocks in the living room and scoot the box to their bedroom. I suddenly hear a "thunk" sound followed by silence, followed by the buildup of an ear-piercing scream and heavy crying from Q.
"Are you okay? Are you okay? Let me get ice for you, okay?" Nol yells to his little brother as Q. continues to let his heavy tears flow. He's crying, he's clearly hurt, but there is no call of "Mama!"
So I sit. And wait.
Sock-covered feet scurry into the kitchen. A drawer opens. The ice maker in the refrigerator churns.
"I'm coming, Q. It'll be okay! I'm coming with ice!"
The feet scurry back across the house, only there is a trip and then the sound of ice scattering on the hardwood floors. The good-hearted, brotherly rescue attempt hits a bump.
Q.'s crying is softer, but only because he is now hiding in his closet yelling, "Ice is cold. Noooo ice!"
"Nol, do you need help?" I ask.
"No Mom, I've got it."
I find Q. leaning against his door, tears streaming down his face. I sit on his blue bean bag and he slowly makes his way into my lap, buries his face in my neck and holds me. Six walks in with a Ziploc bag filled with ice...and a towel. He thought of everything.
"Here, Q. Here's the ice."
I learn that as Six and Q. were working together to push the wooden toy box of blocks, Q. tripped onto the corner of the toy box, creating a small gash and welt along his right jawline. I take the bag from Six, wrap it in the towel and place it on my shoulder. Q. drops his chin on it and holds me, all-the-while saying, "No ice, no ice."
Six sits next to us on the bean bag and rubs Q.'s back. "You're okay."
"I love you, No No," he says, looking up at his big brother.
And I try to remember this scene the next morning as they both scream: "No, It's mine." "NO! IT'S MINE! AND I'M GOING TO BOP YOU!"
No ice necessary.
