This is what happens when 11-year-olds play baseball with five-year-olds.
This child is usually...shall we say...a bit dramatic, so I didn't even comfort him when he came in crying. No blood. No broken bones. No need for tears. (That's our motto around here.)
The next day, I told him to get up in the bathroom and wash his face off. (It looked a bit like dirt.) Only after it didn't come clean (and I very nearly chewed him out for not listening to me) did I realize he'd actually got hurt the day before.
So, I did the only thing I knew that could remedy the situation.
I went out and played 500 with the boys. I was the batter. And the baseball turned into a tennis ball.
Problem solved.
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