As if I needed more evidence that my little baby is evolving into a full-blown kid, last week Orion got his first official skinned knee. He was with his dad at the time, and from what I understand he was running and biffed on the sidewalk, as excited toddlers sometimes do. He’s totally fine—it’s just a scraped knee, after all—and I’m certainly not wringing my hands over it, considering it’s just a superficial abrasion. But I can’t help but notice how grown up he’s looking these days. (Complete with boyish bruised-up legs.)
He’s handling it like a champ, too, although he keeps re-scraping the wound and is now saying “Ow” more. A few cuddles seem to be the perfect prescription for pain relief.
I’m not going to lose sleep (not yet, anyway) over all the future scraped knees and other minor injuries he’ll get, because they’re certainly inevitable. Like every mother, I want to protect my child(ren) from harm, but I know I can’t. I got my fair share of injuries (five broken fingers, cuts that needed stitches, a pop fly softball to the forehead, etc.) and I’ve lived to tell the tale.
So it’s been a good lesson for both of us: Big kids fall down and skin their knees, but we heal—and sometimes scar—and then we do it all over again.
Maybe it makes us tougher. Maybe we even learn something. If we’re lucky.