A few nights ago, I returned from work to discover David (Son #4) in the front yard of The Manor, hopping about on one foot. When I asked him what was up, he related a (somewhat harrowing) tale as to how he had acquired a painful splinter in his foot, leading to the hopping. I helped him inside, semi-carrying him to assist with his efforts to put as little weight on the foot as possible.
Once inside, I paused to explain to Phoebe (Daughter #1) that the modeling clay she'd gotten her hands on was not actually gum, and David headed upstairs—crawling, mostly—in search of a pair of tweezers. Having convinced Phoebe that the clay she was holding (and chewing) was not actually meant for chewing, I headed upstairs myself. David was squirreled away in the den, book in hand, so I presumed that things had gone off without a hitch.
A few minutes later—20 or so, I'd say—I asked David to fetch me something. Much to my surprise, he got up with some difficulty and started to hop (gingerly) out of the room. Clearly, his foot (and its accompanying splinter) was far from satisfactorily addressed. So I headed out in search of the tweezers, and returned to release him from the splinter's jabs.
As I worked away at the sliver of wood, I asked him why he hadn't given its extraction his full attention, since it was so clearly paining him. His response?
"I got distracted by my book."