The children were playing cheerfully, so I started painting another of the upstairs doors. As soon as I had paint under my fingernails, on my arms and between my fingers, Amy ran through the house in full panic mode.

“I’m painting, Amy. What’s the problem?”
“Evan is hurt! He has blood on his face.”
“What happened?”
“I dunno.”
“Can you get him in the house while I wash the paint off my hands?”
“Oh, he’s already inside. He’s playing Legos.”

The absence of tears from my very dramatic 5-year-old both concerned and confused me. Amy dragged her brother into the room where I was painting. I gasped.

“Take a picture and send it to your father so that he will come home.”

I ran for a wet washcloth as my phone rang.

“What happened to Evan? Does he need stitches? Is his retina scratched?”
“I have no idea what happened. I’m trying to find out how bad it is. Evan, be still while I put this washcloth on your cheek.”
“Mooom, I was trying to build something and you’re gonna make me lose my place.”
“Doug, you don’t need to come home. Evan is fine.”
“Are you sure?”

I sent the fuzzy picture that Amy took to Twitter. Almost instantly, someone correctly identified the injury as red Popsicle splatter. They politely ignored the dirt.

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