Last week we had a little incident. Unthinkingly, I let Jonathan take my half-sized popsicle stick out of my hand and play with it. There he was being his adorable self sucking off the last remaining bit of ice cream from it when he began to tip. It was as if I was caught in a slow motion web that I knew would end badly. In half time, the tipping commenced and began to speed up. As I was trying to move at lightning speek, the web dissipated and Bam! Jonathan slammed into the floor, the tiny stick cutting into his cheek.

He instantly screamed and continued to scream when I picked him up. To my horror, blood poured from his mouth. I ran to the kitchen with him in my arms, grabbed a clean cloth and tried to catch the blood while frantically - yet as calmly as I could - try to find where it was that he was bleeding from. After calming him down just a little, I got him out of his soiled clothes and cuddled him until he fell asleep.

I took him to the doctor's and it was so hard to hold down his little arms while the doctor cleaned the cut. Jonathan was miserable the rest of the day. He just wanted to be cuddled and began crying if you so much as moved. I've never seen such a frown on that boy's face. I felt terrible. My little boy was in pain and it was because of me. 'What if' scenarios kept going through my head, and I sent up many prayers of thanks that the stick hadn't gone down his throat.

The hardest part for both David and myself was the fact that our little boy was in pain and we couldn't take it away.