And bumps and bruises; scrapes and scratches; and scabs and scars on your shins you can never explain.
THAT'S what MY little boys are made of.
If I didn't know with 100% certainty that I was not abusing my child, I'd have to wonder. To look at Bug's legs from the knees down, you'd think he'd been in a constant battle for the last several years. Basically since he learned to walk. That boy's legs are covered in various scrapes, scratches, bruises and scars from who knows how many skateboarding and bicycle stunts gone wrong. Excuse me....new stunt development.
And he's proud of each one. In fact, if pressed, he could probably tell me how he got most of them. However, since I often prefer my ostrich-like existence, I don't ask anymore. I just clean up the blood, drown it in peroxide, slather it with Neosporin, and slap on a bandage. Then he's up and out the door, ready to tackle his next stunt attempt.
Jock isn't much better. The only difference now is that instead of the scratches and scrapes, he comes home with bruises the size of helmets or baseballs. Actually made by helmets and baseballs.
You know what? Coach isn't any better than the younger boys. Only the damage to him is usually *not quite* deep enough to require stitches. You see, this boy is big enough to play with the sharper toys.
There simply isn't enough sugar and spice in this house. I'm it. And if you ask the slugs I'm either married to or parenting, there are an overwhelming number of days when, quite frankly, there is NO sugar or spice in this house. And as those silly little sugar substitutes are not allowed, they have had to learn how to adapt.
Or duck and run for cover, as the case may be.
Wish them luck.
**according to the Google search I did, this has been a fairly popular blog post title. However, I was too uninspired to change it to something else.