This is my son.
He has a wound between his eyes.
The wound occurred after he slammed his face into our fireplace.
It wasn’t pretty.
I was in the shower. My husband was watching him play. The babysitter was on her way over so the hubs and I could go on a much-anticipated (and very needed) date night.
But when your baby boy slams his face into your fireplace, plans change.
Two hours and one ER trip later, we were home. And we were exhausted.
I put the boy to bed and then put myself to bed. All before 9 p.m. on a Friday night.
I’ve been at this parenting gig for nearly a decade. We have two older girls and our guy is 14-months-old. He came along six years later.
A boy. Who made me a “boy mom”.
I’ll be honest, folks. I didn’t get it until now.
My girls are rambunctious. They play in the dirt and climb trees. They run, and jump and bike and do everything an adult would expect a young girl to do.
But they’ve never done this.
They’ve never slammed their heads into a fireplace so hard they required an emergency trip to get stitches.
“It’s boys,” the nurses said.
“Just wait, it gets harder,” the ladies at church warned me.
“Yep, I have two boys at home, too,” the ER doc chuckled.
I called our insurance company to give them a heads up and to ask how much this adventure would cost.
“Well, the good news is, his deductible is already met for the year.”
“Of course it is,” I sighed.
“It’s a boy thing,” she told me.
And so it seems.
This boy. Since he’s entered the world, my life has been in a constant state of exhaustion. My hair is graying quicker than ever. The house is always a disaster. My body is smushy and holding onto pounds like never before. Date nights are canceled and bills are getting bigger. And I already can’t keep enough food in this house for a family of five.
And it’s worth it.
Every rough tumble and fall, every scare, every penny.
It’s worth it.
This little boy fills my heart with more love than I knew existed.
Must be a boy thing.
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