Join Me in Snarkville

Picture it, it was a warm autumn day and my son was outside riding on his Clifford Ride-On.  The wind was rushing through his hair, he was adorably cute in his overalls and matching shirt.  He hit a crack in the sidewalk and went face first over Clifford’s Big Red Head.  A small scrap and a little blood, I was carrying him back to the house for a little clean up and TLC.  My neighbor, at the time childless — now the proud father of TWO– flung the window of his house open to yell after me, “Dude, don’t worry about it, chicks dig scars.”

I never forgot that.  It was a calming phrase that I repeat often when I see danger around every corner.  I know in the logical side of me that I can not wrap Duke up in bubble wrap and never let him enjoy being a kid.  But it doesn’t mean I want to be in the ER frequent visitor club, k?

It isn’t like we let Duke scale the sides of buildings or do dangerous things.  We took him to that land of sharp things, the bowling alley.  We get him an ultra-light ball that he can carry and will bounce if dropped.  We have taught him not to let his fingers get caught between the balls as the move around the ball return.  We apparently failed to remind him that he, as our son, will be quite capable of tripping over air at any given moment.

Yes, Friday night saw us picking up Duke from where he fell.  It saw us trying to figure out where all this blood came from.  It saw us discover that despite the fact he’d tripped up a small step, his fall had been absorbed by his chin on his Ultra-Light ball.  One look and I just knew that we faced stitches.

I said the word “stitches” and Prince blanched and said, “I’ll driving, but I’m not watching.”   We both feared the long line in the ER that is so common on a Friday night.  We arrive and answer a billion questions (ok, maybe 10 or so) and are instantly taken to special ER room for kids.  Wait, this is so very different.  We had movies to watch and everything in the room was made for kids.  Some of the guys stopped in to say hi and tell us “this won’t be the last time”– to which I kept repeating, “it’s ok, chicks dig scars.”

The doctor comes in and confirms that we were right, the wound needed to be closed, but not with stitches — with glue.  Ok, the worst part of that plan is that he couldn’t touch his chin to his chest until it dried.  The doctor seemed most concerned to make sure we weren’t worried about the scar — a scar that even if it is the ugliest scar in the world, will never be seen unless you are looking directly up at the underside of his chin.  Again, I said, “chicks dig scars.”  The doctor laughed and I think he understood that while we do what we can to make it less of a scar, it isn’t the end of the world to us.

Then it happened.  The nurse came in with a bandaid and Duke looks up and said, “I got a bandaid and my boo-boo is all better.”  I tried get him to say, “chicks dig scars,” but I’m ok with the notion that to him the bandaid made it all better.

Two days, and two colorful bandaid replacements later, the cut looks good.  I’m doubtful there will be much of a scar, which with age will appear to be a wrinkle more than anything else.  Duke seems to be thrilled with his new bandaid choices.

I can’t shake the flashbacks to the first time I saw my son’s blood.  I can’t shake the desire to reach back and hug my neighbor knowing that his words were both funny and comforting then and now.  It is ok, chicks do dig scars, and now Duke will have one and he’s young enough to make-up a really good story to go with it.  I’m sure tripping at a bowling alley will never do.

Now, if I’d just put the bubble wrap away before he goes to school tomorrow.