So, Basil had another run in with a stinging insect. He ran swiftly and quietly past me into the house and into the back room, shutting the door. I noticed a bee angrily wriggling on the porch where he had been working and imediately knew what had taken place.
Now he is officially a little boy, bee stung thumb and all. The funniest thing is that he didn't cry and didn't want me to look at it. Later, in the car, on route to the arboretum, he was asking detailed questions about Jesus' crown of thorns and did it hurt. He happily concluded (mostly on his own, surprisingly) that since Jesus had "healed himself" and had risen from the dead, that Jesus was healing his thumb, too.
How's that for carseat theology?