Today, for the first time, Boy Two drew blood from Boy One. B1 was on the floor looking at one of his coloring books, when, BAM, out of nowhere, he was hit smack in the face with a flying flashlight. B2 was the only other person home, and I can promise you, I am not in the habit of throwing camping gear in the apartment. The guilty party is clear.
At first, B1 didn't breathe, but his face made that square-mouth shape he used to make when he was little, when the injustices of the world were just too much to bear. Then, he took a breath, and then he screamed, a long, anguished scream, as the blood began to seep out of the new red line below his eye.
I looked at B2. He was smiling from behind his pacifier, reaching out his tiny hands to be picked up.
"Look, Mommy! I can throw!" he seemed to say. "Come and congratulate me for successfully passing the light stick to my brother!"
"Baby, you hurt [B1]. He is sad because you hit him in the face."
Confused and feeling abandoned, he began to cry as well. It took everything I had not to join them, to have all three of us sitting on the floor in the hallway, tears streaming every which-way.
B1 had blood dripping onto the carpet.
"Hold on. Stay there. Let me get an ice pack." I scrambled to the freezer and back, then carefully, gently, pressed the ice pack to his face.
"I'm going to get blood on it!" he sobbed.
"Better on this than on the carpet," I replied.