The day that Sam decides he doesn't need his thumbs

I knew by the tone of his voice when he said, "Ouchie...oooh...ouchie..." that something was very wrong. I flew around the back end of the van as fast as my flip flops would carry me. What I saw...his poor little left thumb closed in the closed van door...him pulling trying to get it out. I switched into emergency mode. I'm always good in emergency mode.

I opened the door ever so slightly to release his thumb but make sure not to slide the door back over his hand or any of his other fingers (that thankfully all still remain attached). It was bent, but not at any sort of unnatural angle or anything. He cried and whimpered, "Ouchie...it hurts...it hurts...it hurts." I ushered him into the house, wrapped his thumb in ice, and administered grape flavored tylenol and the Wiggles on television (not sure, but I think the Wiggles was probably the most helpful medicine).

And now, two hours later, I feel it coming...The nervous breakdown.

It's lurking and waiting to take me to that dark place where I am all too painfully aware of the riskiness of life...the potential for bad things to happen to those I love. It's whispering in my ear and telling me to cry. It's settling on my chest and making it difficult to breathe.

Sam's up and eating and seems to be feeling fine. I will not fall apart. I refuse. It's fine. He's fine. That's all that matters.

And he has learned a very valuable lesson. Mom has reasons for why she says, "Be careful," all the time. And Mom is smart when she tells you not to push on the van door from the edges. Mom likes you with your thumbs and she's trying to help you keep them.

And Mom needs you to keep your thumbs...for her own sanity. OK? OK.