After meeting Kiddo#3 for fifteen minutes, someone commented to me, “He sure has a lot of personality.”
That’s one way of putting it, yeah. Kiddo#3 throws himself wholeheartedly into everything. Life is fun, and he knows it, and his goal seems to be tasting every single fun item on the all-you-can-eat Buffet Of Fun this life offers up. Make sure you have extra plates, because he’s going back for seconds and thirds.
When nothing fun is available, well, he makes it up:
On Tuesday afternoon, Kiddo#3 was playing football in the front yard with Kiddo#1. You’d think that’s not fair, since #1 is twice the size of #3, but hey, they have fun. At least, they had fun until Kiddo#3 ran into a tree. I think he was trying to tackle it; Kiddo#1 said only, “Maybe we shouldn’t have picked trees to be the end zone.”
The end of the story is, “Seven stitches.” The kid opened a cut about two inches above his eye, about an inch and a half long, and in my personal medical opinion, “It wasn’t a clean cut.”
Patient Husband: What do you mean by that?
Me: It looked ookie.
Patient Husband: Yeah, it did.
And so, after arriving home at 9pm, the Kiddo was put to bed where he whimpered every so often, dreaming about trees spiking footballs in the end zone. Or something. Traumatized? You be the judge.
The next morning, while eating breakfast, I turn to find Kiddo#3, his head bandaged, grinning at me. “Guess what?” he said. “At the hospital when you get your head stitched up, you get a popsicle, and you get stickers, and see I have four stickers, and I had a red popsicle, but I wanted a purple one, but they didn’t have one — ”
He was the celebrity at the bus stop, my FrankenKiddo, and surprised the other moms when he said that yes, he’d gone to the hospital “because that’s where you go to get stitches” and I inadvertently made them laugh by saying, “Well, the last time, he got four staples in his head…”
Oh boy. Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy, oh boy, oh boy.