This morning, while closing my bathroom door, I somehow managed to catch the big toe on my left foot in the gap between the door and the tile. It might have been slightly less excruciating if my toe had been chopped off with a hatchet, but I wouldn't bet on it.
I yelled and said AAARGH and FUCK and a lot of other less-than-ladylike things, and then I hobbled downstairs, still wincing and making pained hissing noises, because I wanted to tell someone about my agony and G was the only one to tell.
"I hurt my foot," I said as I limped into her bedroom.
She glanced up from her Wii game.
"What happened to it?"
"I shut the bathroom door on it. It really hurts a lot. I'm surprised it isn't bleeding."
"Your toenail polish is scraped," she observed, and then she said:
"Can you get me some cold pizza? I'm hungry."
Thanks a lot, kid. I'm bowled over by your concern!
And yet when she saw a kitten with an injured-looking paw on our patio a few months ago, she was in tears begging me to catch it and take it to the vet. Apparently you need four legs and a tail to get any sympathy around here.