Dear Sam,

I had this really hysterical post all thought out about all the things you have done recently (in collusion with the Cosmic Thumb, I was sure.) Really, it's been a difficult week with you. I was going to poke some serious fun at you for eating a whole bag of chocolate Easter eggs before dinner. You know, you looked so silly with your finger stuck in that Bob the Builder work bench toy all covered in oil and ice, (which took Daddy a half an hour to cut apart from around you). I was gonna tease you for lighting a tissue on that candle and burning the carpet in three places (which again took Daddy a half hour to shave down), for standing on my laundry basket and snapping it completely in half, drinking half a bottle of cold medicine, and various sundry other things which would take all day to write out, but you know which ones I mean.

Instead, little punky boy of mine, now all I can think about is how purple that little finger got, and how afraid I was that you would lose it.

All I can think about is you crying with utter embarrassment when you realized that you'd broken a safety rule playing with fire and how close we came to losing our home, not to mention the 2nd degree burn on your thumb.

All I can think about is the egg-sized lump on your head from when you fell off that laundry basket. How I had to keep waking you up, to make sure you really would.

All I can think about is how miserable you've been with this never-ending cold that has tormented you for so long.

Maybe a day will come when we laugh together about this week, but for now, all I can think about is what if things don't work out so well in the end next time.


And that, sweet little curious boy of mine, isn't funny at all.