At the moment my son has a black eye, a skinned knee, and shins that are leopard-mottled with bruising.
The black eye is my fault — last night he was running across the living room, shrieking with delight, and I threw out a towel-draped arm to try to catch him and rein him in for a diaper change. But he pivoted suddenly out of my reach at the last second, running blindly through the towel and straight into the TV cabinet.
So that one’s at least partially on me. But in general this constant mapping of mild physical destruction on his body is just the consequence of his wildly adventurous approach to life, which seems to be based on the following mission statement:
- With no help.
- With stuff in your hands.
- Obstacles be damned.
Here’s a video of our son climbing the stairs to our apartment. He has a rock in his hands most of the way and only intermittently uses the handrail. And even when I try to help him, he’s so enthusiastic that he falls down several times. This is why he looks the way he does. (This, plus ridiculously translucent skin.)
What I find most amusing about this is that when he finally gets to the top of the stairs he chucks the rock into the grass as though he doesn’t really want it anymore.