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SOMEBODY HELP THE BOY


I was at home alone with Ryan one morning when I suddenly realized that it had been approximately two minutes since my little explorer had made any noise. (When one babysits with Ryan, silence is definitely not golden.) I immediately began looking for him, searching each room of the house, but he was not to be found. Finally, I glanced through the kitchen window and saw that Ryan had managed to crawl into the back of a truck which some builders had parked in our driveway. The bed of the truck was taller than Ryan’s head, and it is still a mystery as to how he climbed so high. When I found him, he was trying desperately to get down. He was hanging off the back of the truck from his waist downward, yet his feet were still suspended twelve to fifteen inches above the ground. Seeing that he was going to fall, I slipped up behind him without him hearing me coming and placed my hands outward to catch him when he fell. But as I drew nearer, I heard him talking to himself. He was not crying. He didn’t complain or scream in terror. He was simply probing empty space with one foot and saying softly, "Somebody help the boy! Won’t somebody come help the boy?" His words characterized his way of life, for "helping the boy" has become a full-time job for Ryan’s loving mother and me.


(Dobson, J. C. (2010). What wives wish their husbands knew about women. Carol Stream, IL: Tyndale.)

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