Panic.

Is when your husband calls from your daughter's softball practice and says, "We need ice. Now. Immediately." And you can hear someone crying. And your car is in the shop. And your 5-year-old is in the shower.

So you load up a Ziploc, put the wet 5-year-old in a T-shirt and a pair of panties two sizes too big, run across the street and hijack a neighbor to drive you to the fields. All the way, you're thinking, "Please don't let there be blood. Don't let it be Abbie." (Not that you want it to be anyone else!) And you get there, and it is your daughter, and it is her nose, and it is bleeding. Direct hit.

I'm so glad I don't have boys.