Earlier this afternoon.
I’m in the kitchen prepping a chicken for dinner.
Julia and Alex have been playing upstairs – wonderful child-play – with lots of shrieking and gurgly laughter.
Julia comes into the kitchen. The way her heels hit the floor is very businesslike, no-nonsense, and could be intimidating if she wasn’t so short.
"Mom." She stated. "I gotta tell you something." Something that cannot wait, by the tone.
"What is it, Julia?" I ask, still busy with the chicken.
"Mom, look, I got blood."
When she speaks the word, blood has about three syllables.
I look down to see what’s bleeding. She’s not crying, so it can’t be too bad.
She holds up one tiny finger; her other hand squeezes the finger tightly so that a tiny line of blood appears just beneath the nail.
"How did that happen?" I ask, turning back to my chicken.
"I don’t know" she says, unconcerned now. Her shoulders shrug in this new tone of voice.
She pauses a bit.
"But it’s good to lick!"