I TOLD YOU SO!!!

There are times when, as a parent, you really want to say, "I told you so."

And there are times you can do it. And there are times you can't.

As I've mentioned before, Sonwun has taken a liking to Buzz Lightyear and his annoying catchphrase, "To infinity and beyond."

The phrase is usually announced by Sonwun just prior to one of his leaps; from the couch, from the stairs, from his bed, from the bathroom counter. The kid just lives on the edge at every opportunity.

And, god help me, I've tried to dissuade him from these daredevil leaps. But, as he has 3.5 years of experience on the planet, he knows a lot more than I do. After all, he's made the leap dozens of times and nothing's happened. So, based on that experience, nothing will ever happen.

I have also done my best to encourage my little mini-me to pick up his toys. And while all of the toys are included in that encouragement, I am particularly picky about the little ones: the lego pieces, the little men from Geotrax and the little Matchbox cars and trucks. To be fair, it's not just about neatness. It's also about me going to the washroom at 3 a.m. and stepping on three or four of these little torture devices on the way. It's about not being able to yell, because it's 3 a.m. It's about resisting the urge to go and wake Sonwun for some impromptu tidying.

So you probably know where I'm going with this. This morning, I'm tidying the kitchen. The boys are downstairs doing what they do best. They are messing things up, pulling blankets off the couch, scattering toys, fighting over toys - they are being little boys.

And then I hear it: "To infinity and beyond," THUMP, WAAAAAAHHHHHHHH.

And, as a parent with a few years under my belt, I know it's not one of those I-need-attention, I'm-bored kind of screams. It's the kind that means he's actually done some damage. And this time, he's taken his flying leap off the stairs and landed on a piece of Tow Mater, Lego version. He's hobbling up the stairs when I find him, tears streaming down his scrunched up little face. He is in pain.

It take a minute or two of wailing before he can tell me where it hurts. I take off his Lightning McQueen sock (a little something for you irony fans) to find a puncture wound in his little foot. It's right in the middle, where it's gonna hurt the most. There's a little blood, but nothing serious. After a few more minutes of staggered breathing, he's able to tell me he landed on Tow Mater.

I want to say it. I want the lesson to sink in. You've been warned about "flying," haven't you? I've asked you to pick up your toys, haven't I? Do you see why now? It's the same reason I tell you not to step on the dog's head while she's sleeping. It's why I say, don't put that fork in the wall socket, don't tie that thing around your neck and stop jumping on the bed. Do you see it's not to make your life miserable? Do you see that it is because I love you and do not want to see you get hurt?

But now's not the time.

Now is the time for cleaning the wound with ice cold water. It's time for polysporin and a bandaid. And it's time to wipe away the tears and offer a big hug. It's time to put on his favourite movie and sit him on the couch until the pain goes away.

There will be plenty of time, once he's feeling better, to attempt to impart a little wisdom, to try to make him see that A+B doesn't always equal C, but when it does, it can really hurt.

It's a lesson that I'm sure I will have to impart, time and time again, for the next 20 years or so. Will he learn it? I hope so, but it took me more than 20 years to figure it out, why should he be any different?