Last Tuesday I believe, I was helping Phil with something outside, and Bryce was peddling laps about us, whilst naughty little Deacon delved into a major no-touch: my late grandmother's knitting box. I've never really searched too deeply inside the box, but the knitting needles seemed like reason enough to limit access to it . . . well, naughty little quickly became poor little. His wails announced trouble--which could be "I can't get my boots on" or "I need juice" or in this case "I have blood pouring down my chin".
Only the teeniest of cuts (once I sopped up all the dribbling) and was completely amenable to stop bleeding altogether, yet never the less a bandaid Deacon had to have.He was very happy.
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