With Angry Baby’s newfound moving around and exploration, bumps, cuts, and boo hoos are bound to happen. Yesterday, Angry Baby got her first bruise.
She was standing up and bumped her head while pulling up. Though startled by the thud of her massive gourd hitting the wood, she was unfazed, she kept pulling up.
Immediately, I checked her noggin out and saw a red spot that has now faded into a bruise.
Her first bruise. The first of many, as Angry Baby is already a lil’ daredevil.
I have friends who cried when their child got their first bug bite, and those that lamented baby’s inaugural bruise. I sympathize with your sorrow.
You see, I got a little misty at my Angry Baby’s faintest purple badge of honor. It didn’t last long though because a few moments later, I noticed some curious marks on MY forearms.
These bruises were the type of mottled browns, greens and purples cast by a fist, or firm grasp on your arm. As I looked closer at these flecks of color on my plaster-white forearms, I noticed finger marks. Tiny finger marks. These bruises were the product of my very own baby whose first bruise, I’d just observed.
Angry Baby has been pulling up on me for days now, and when she pulls herself up half the time, she insists on using me as her steady. Each attempt, she holds my forearms in a death-match grip. A death-match that ended in a bunch of tiny little bruises for my arms to remember her by.
As Angry Baby is learning to stand on her own two feet, and starting to navigate this world, she’s bound to get a little bruised up. But, I’m going to take far more of a beating. I guess that is the ultimate metaphor for parenthood.
Sure, she and I will be bruised in the process, but in the end we’ll both be stronger for it.
Luckily, I’ve got the chops. Bring it lil’ wrecking ball.