On our walk back from the park -- where Will got distracted while climbing a playground ladder, slipped and banged his head on one of the rungs, immediately developed a nice-sized knot on the back of his head, screamed and cried in pain, then stopped sobbing just long enough to scream “GET AWAY!” through his tears at all caring, concerned onlookers who were trying to ensure that he was okay (this getting-ferocious-with-all-helpful-people-after-an-injury thing is embarrassing every time) -- Will asked me a simple question:
“Mom, what day is it?”
“January eighth.” (Normally I tell Will the day of the week; this time I had dates on the brain for some reason.)
“No I didn’t want the 8.”
“Oh, you just wanted to know what month it was?”
“Yeah, January,” Will said, satisfied with the whole month answer.
Soon after our arrival home, Will asked Rob: “Dad is it the weekend?”
“No, it’s Tuesday.”
And suddenly Will, still fragile after his fall at the park, started to cry. “No it’s not, it’s JANUARY!” he yelled. And cried some more.