Crying wolf

The other day, I was downstairs with Bearhug and Cuddlebug when I heard a loud, piercing scream of agony erupt from Little Bitty upstairs. It was a rare kind of scream, and that's saying something for a little guy who screams a lot. I bolted up the stairs -- I don't think I've ever run up the stairs so fast in my life -- fighting mental images of gushing blood, trying to figure out what he could have hurt himself on, and telling myself to quit imagining what it could be and just hurry up to see what it is.

As I came in sight of the playroom, I found him standing there, still screaming. There was no blood, no sign of injury at all. It took a second for that to sink in, and I was flooded with relief.

Because there was Little Bitty, standing just outside his playroom, holding too many trains in his little hands, using his chin to try to keep them from falling, and yet one or two had fallen. Rather than just take the ones he could carry and come back for the rest, he remained in that one spot, screaming like nothing I can remember hearing before.

As soon as I picked up the fallen trains, he stopped screaming and smiled, then showed me where he wanted to take the trains. Crisis averted. I hope I never hear that scream again, but if I do, at least next time I can picture falling trains instead of gushing blood as I bolt up the stairs (b/c you know I will no matter how many times he "cries wolf").