You see this kid’s face? You should see the wall.
There’s not a mark on it.
We were happily bathing the younger boys, trying to keep the 15 gallons of water inside the tub for once, when our 8-year-old came howling into the house. Now, this isn’t all that unusual. This boy has a penchant for being…dramatic. For example, one day we were at a local museum, which has a kids’ area with kid-sized workout equipment, and he was adjusting the seat on a stationary bike and accidentally scratched his leg on a pedal. He fell on the floor like he was dying, moaning so that a museum worker came over to us and asked if maybe he needed some ice or a first-aid kit or maybe an ambulance. There was hardly a scratch on him. I thanked her for her concern and told her he’d be just fine, and, sure enough, thirty seconds later, he was chasing after one of his brothers who had accidentally picked up the book the 8-year-old had brought with him, because he brings books everywhere, in case there’s a second or two between exhibits when he’ll get a chance to bury himself in a word or two.
He comes howling into the house when he’s tried “skating” with two scooters and runs into the van. He comes howling into the house when his brother mis-aimed a ball and hit him on the foot. He comes howling into the house when he jumps off the trampoline the wrong way (and yet still does it).
So, of course, we didn’t think much of this little display.
Our boy limped up the stairs and into the bathroom, and this time we knew it was for real. His chin was bleeding, his upper lip was bleeding, and his knee was smeared with red.
“What in the world happened?” I said, freaking out a little, but trying hard not to show it.
“I ran into a wall,” he said.
“How did you run into a wall?” Husband said.
“I was riding my scooter too fast and couldn’t stop when I came around the corner of the house,” our son said.
Husband and I looked at each other and tried not to laugh. Because even though we could visualize it almost perfectly—the way he would be cruising down the cul-de-sac, how cocky he gets about his “skillz,” how his face might have looked when he saw he’d misjudged and the wall was coming at him instead of moving away—it really wasn’t funny. It wasn’t. Stop laughing.
We checked him over for broken bones and then cleaned up his scrapes, listening to him talk about how he wouldn’t be able to walk to school the next day and probably couldn’t even go at all because he was so beat up. And you know? I almost felt sorry enough for him to let him stay home (because he’s pretty good at generating a yes). Except that he’s 8. If I’d done what he did, I would be laid up for a week. But he’s 8. His body’s much more capable of bouncing back.
So I smiled at him and said, “I hope you’ve learned your lesson, sweet boy.”
What lesson would that be? Well, apparently he didn’t know, either. Three minutes later, he was back out on the scooter, trying to race his brothers down the hill, navigating between the van’s front bumper and the wall that had beat him up, just so he could be the first one inside and win the prize of…nothing.
I have a sneaking suspicion that this is just my life as a mom of boys. God help me.
