Took Youngest to A & E recently. School rang to say he had hole in his head after falling on a table.
Poor little mite.
Off we went, with Youngest in Unexpected High Spirits Considering and chatting nineteen to the dozen all the way. Me muttering about food shopping and having no time to wipe my bottom (sorry, more lavatorial stuff). In between concerned questions about whether or not Youngest could see properly and did he have a headache.
Youngest hugely brave. Glue poured over hole and all sealed up. Howling with pain. His head pushed firmly into my shoulder where it stayed until he realised the torture was over.
Nurse gave him a teddy which I thought most kind. We called him Sam and Youngest cuddled him tight through his torrential tears.
Youngest, needing a little cuddle before bed time, told me how brave he had been.
'I was brave. I didn't cry, Mummy.'
I said, as I have said a million times, 'Brave isn't NOT crying, brave is doing it anyway even when you ARE crying.
'Well,' he said, 'I REALLY wasn't crying. My eyes were just leaking so that water came down my face.'
Oh, I said. In an understanding sort of way.
And hugged him close.
I reckon he was Damned Brave.
Despite the leakages.