100 Bruises

If you’re going to rough house with your son, then one of the things you should expect to get are bruises. And I’m even more susceptible than most people to get them. Some days I feel like my entire body is a bruise, because it’s so sore.

I estimate that I’ve had at least a hundred bruises directly caused by Troy. Whether that’s getting kneed in the ribs, kicked in the arm, bitten by a dinosaur, beaten with an inflatable Triceratops, or popped by a wayward elbow; it usually always ends up a dark green bruise.

On the other hand, Troy has had his fair share of bruises too. I don’t think I remember ever seeing his little legs without a single bruise on them. He even came out with a bruise when the doctor had to forcibly grab him by his ankle and yank him out of the womb.

I’ve heard of a death by a thousand cuts, but I’ve never heard of death by a thousand bruises. At my current pace, and taking into account the upward curving trajectory of the frequency of getting hurt, I should be there by next April or May. Faced with possibly only eight more months, I’m not sure what I’ll do with my remaining life. That’s a lie, of course I do! I’m going to go tackle Troy, cover him in kisses, and prepare for another round with the Triceratops.