Evan was our little chatterbox. He got up talking and he'd go to bed talking (complaining about the door being open or shut or the light being on or off, etc.) Last year while I was still desperately trying to hold on to an afternoon naptime, Evan was decidedly not in bed. He was in his bathroom messing around. Duncan was still nursing in the night, so I was trying to catch up on some shuteye, but I got up to see what in the world Evan was doing and take him back to his room. As I walked out of my room, I heard Evan start to cry. And it wasn't the fake cry that you just shrug off, but the real thing. I went to check out the situation. I brought him to my room and asked him what happened. He wouldn't say. I took him downstairs, and gave him a cookie and milk, because he was still really upset. I thought, "Cookies always do the trick." I noticed he was favoring a certain finger, and he continued to whimper. I called the doctor and got an appointment. I asked again what happened. No answer from my usually loquatious boy. I got Duncan up, and took them both to the pediatrician's office. Evan fell asleep in my lap while we waited. We got back to the office, and Daddy arrives. Evan had started to perk up after his brief nap, and started talking about his doctor, Dr. Tim. "Where's Dr. Tim? Will he have his stethyscope?" I told Justin that I thought Evan had squished his finger in the drawer, but he wouldn't tell me, so I wasn't sure. Then Evan turns to his Daddy, "Daddy, I squished my finger in the drawer. I told Mommy." I said, "No, you didn't!" But he was already off on another tangent.