It’s Just a Flesh Wound

Boys get hurt. We do stupid things to ourselves, either as a result of not thinking or in spite of it. Bruises are beautiful, and scrapes are simply failed attempts at the ultimate in male expression: the open, oozing wound.

For the most part, Ian keeps himself in bruises. His creativity hasn’t yet reached the level of intentional self destruction, and his injuries are mainly due more to clumbsiness than anything else. Mainly.

Two weeks ago, Ian was running across a courtyard. He tripped, and tried to catch himself with his face. Considering that the ground is flat, and his nose anything but, I still don’t know how he managed to scrape both sides, his upper lip, and a nostril.

Last weekend, he tried to get out of the bathtub by himself. He slipped, and didn’t try to catch himself with anything. I wasn’t a witness to this, I simply saw the result: my son with a fat, split lip, Ian’s bathtowel and Kelly both covered in blood. Now that’s an injury a guy can be proud of. He even got a nasty, slimy, yellowish scab. Neat.

This past Monday, Ian’s forehead had some sort of altercation with the corner of Grandpa’s desk. Again, I wasn’t there, but it resulted in a very impressive goose-egg above Ian’s left eye.

Of course, this is all relatively harmless…so to speak. Ian’s a boy, and these things happen. But does everyone know this?

I started to get a little paranoid after the Bathtub Incident. It happened on a Saturday evening, and the next morning Ian would be going to nursery and Sunday school. These activities are both managed by people trained in childcare, who are charged with protecting the well-being of children.

My unsettling thought was this: when do the wages of an exuberant childhood start to resemble something more sinister? This thought would normally never have crossed my mind if not for Ian’s recent rash of specactular injuries.

Last night, Ian asked me to make tea. Apparently I took my own sweet time, because I soon found him on his toes, stretching his hand toward our electric kettle. Thankfully it was turned off (I’d already made the tea, thank you very much), but let me just say that even guys don’t appreciate the ruddy sheen of a third-degree burn. What would people have thought if Ian showed up to Sunday school with a handfull of begauzed fingers?

I’m fairly sure that my fears are unfounded. If anyone should recognize a boy’s propensity for injury, it’s certainly someone who regularly takes care of children. Just to be safe, let me say that my son is inherently clumbsy, and that it’s very hard to catch the arm of a plummeting toddler when it’s covered in soap.

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