Thwarted

Dear Jack,

Your cries always get my attention.

That's the way it should be, I know.

What I had not really noticed before today was how very piercing your cries can be.

We were on the front back porch and you were playing with a crate of rocks.

Why, oh why, do we buy toys?

And your sister closed the lid to the crate. I think she might have knocked you down in the process, but being as short as you are and as wet as your diaper was from playing with the rocks in the water, I doubt it really hurt to be sat down.

But you cried.

And cried.

And cried.

The man walking his dog stopped to check on you.

The man mowing his lawn next door stopped to check on you.

Your dad came around from the side of the house to check on you.

I swear a grandma across the street and three doors down came down off her porch to check on you.

I yelled the very same thing to all of them.

"Thwarted. Not hurt."

Because that's how it was.

You weren't injured. You were mad.

And your mama knows the difference.

Love,
Mom