Yesterday, we were at a bead boutique shopping for a gift for a friend.
(Before motherhood, or at least on a day with more freedom, I would have personally made the gift for my friend; instead, I had to relinquish the longing for luxuries that once were. I loaded the boys up in their stroller, equipped with just enough snacks to occupy them long enough to allow me to choose a gift that was already made. Forget the joys of selecting each bead, bangle, and clasp, and the therapeutic process of stringing it myself. The boys would never last. But they gave me the gift of shopping without whining - they didn't whine, and neither did I - and I shopped and browsed until the snacks ran out. We found a darling bracelet and earrings to wrap and present. Goal accomplished.)
While they munched on fruit snacks and graham crackers, a woman nearby noticed Tucker's shining black eye. She struck up a conversation with him, he answered to the best of his ability, and she listened to the whole story.
"A diddybug (ladybug)... ouch.... eye... black."
Pretty good details and great comprehension on her part. She listened, she sympathized, and then she looked at me and said, "I hope you took a picture."
That seems to be the general consensus. I did. More than one. Don't worry.