No, we're not dead. Sometimes it feels like death would be a sweet release, but the Dark Lord that commands our son has even more suffering for our little family and isn't ready to abandon his favorite playthings just yet.
Chunk is a huge, walking bruise. Last weekend, he fell face first into a display at the Lego Store, giving him an incredibly macho looking black eye. Then, three days later, he managed to make an impressive bell sound by smashing his forehead into a metal pole at the playground, summoning an equally impressive black and green bump right above his shiner. Despite his best efforts, when he smashed his forehead into my computer tray this morning it only resulted in a bit of pink agitation and tears, but no swollen blemishes of bad parenting.
Ah, yes, going out in public with an obviously bruised child. No one warned me about how much fun that would be. Complete strangers offer their well wishes (which is nice), condolences (nice, but unnecessary... his eye didn't exactly fall out), and concern via what could best be described as a court deposition (annoying as hell, especially since I don't have a lawyer).
"How did that happen?"
"Was he pushed down?"
"Weren't you watching him?"
At a brunch with my family on Mother's Day, I joked that Chunk was getting "lippy" and needed to be put in his place. Har har. Yes, the family thought it was quite funny. You can't tell that joke to other people. It'll get you arrested.
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