Years ago, my number four son (Donald) uttered one of the greatest truths of all time. He was barely three years old. A very quiet child with chickie yellow hair, blue eyes, pink cheeks, and lots of freckles, he was not tall for his age, but his determination for justice was monumental. The first sign of “trouble” was a knock on our door. An irate mother stood on the stoop ready to knock again on the door—or anything else. She looked accusingly at me and said “Your son attacked my little boy on his way home from school.” Naturally, I thought of one of our older sons, but she spied Donnie behind me and said, “There he is, the Little Monster.” Her tall, extremely well-fed seven year old son smirked at me while whimpering up at his mother, “He knocked me down and sat on me.” I’m afraid at that point my dignity left me: I laughed. The angry mother grabbed her son by the hand and left in a huff saying, “It’s no laughing matter.” When we went back inside, I s
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