I pulled into my apt parking lot the other day, and found a kid in the middle of the sidewalk, crying over a scraped knee. No one else was in sight.

(No bike or scooter or skateboard was in sight, either. I guess he just tripped and fell.)

Anyways, the poor little guy was crying really hard. I was positively hopping to help him. It was something straight from a Sunday school lesson.* I’m all about helping poor crying little kids.

So. Two seconds later, I hightail it from the apt, carrying a warm wet rag and a bunch of bandaids. The kid is still there, crying his guts out. I help.

I clean it up, slap on a couple of bandaids, and coo things like, “Aw, that’s not so bad” and “There, that feels better now, huh!” I sort of expected him to jump up and run off to play, but he still sits there, crying. By this time, I was feeling really sorry for him.

ME: You ok? Are you ok?

HIM: Waaaaaaaaah

ME: Do you want me to help you up?

HIM: *hiccup* No-o-o

ME: Where do you live?

HIM: *points to one of the buildings* Waaaa-aaa-aah

ME: Do you want me to help you up?

HIM: No!

ME: Um…do you need to be carried? Want me to carry you?


ME: Um. Well can I do anything? What do you want me to do?

HIM: Go away!


Thanks a lot…you little ingrate. Next time you have a scraped knee, let’s save bandaids. Instead I’ll kick you into the gutter and shoot your dog. Geez…

*Nursery Manuel lesson #19: “I Can Be Happy”**
** If you chance to meet a frown…