This is George, age 3. You may think that’s a caterpillar crawling along his forehead looking for some spring greens. Alas, no it’s not. Sadly, that is the gash that allowed us to see George’s skull before it was stitched up by a very nice man…we also call him Dr. Nice. (Okay, I secretly call him that in my head.)
You might ask what terrible part of George’s fate did he encounter and neither was it terrible nor part of his fate. Perhaps a bit of mine. George was sitting on the Arm of a chair. A slippery, wood arm of an old fashioned stuffed chair-the kind that is mostly fabric except for its slippery wood arms. He toppled over and landed on a terra cotta planter. With rounded sides. But somehow he landed in just the right way for a clean, deep cut that hardly bled, considering.
The kid is a trooper. He barely cried when it happened, never complained afterwards and after waiting for an hour at the Doctor’s only whimpered once when the Lidocaine wasn’t fully numbing him. He got seven stitches and pretty much smiled through the whole thing. He’s a tough kid.
I’m lucky that way. My first is a drama queen. She would not be surprised to hear me describe her that way. Nor would she disagree. She might be touchy and glare at me and say “So?” through gritted teeth, but she would just as likely smile as she was saying it. Lucy never has never had stitches, surgery, a broken bone or even many scabs. Thank God. I don’t think either of us could have survived it.
Then my little wild man also has this really tough, laid back side to him. He can jump, run, skitter and slide and it’s all good, because while it may give me a heart attack to imagine the possibilities, he has a blast and is willing to deal with the consequences.
I’m a strong believer that you get what you can handle. The universe never gives you more. I got the two kids that fit me perfectly. I hope they think they got the same in me.