The First Rule of Fight Club

Butters looks and acts so much like his daddy that sometimes I question whether or not I had any role in his creation. But then he does something that is just so “me” that I have to… cringe.
I am the most graceless creature to ever roam this earth. As a child, I would sit in the bathroom to talk to my mother while she did her hair and makeup, and just in the simple act of sitting, I would manage to hurt myself by somehow falling backwards into the tub or against the wall. I cannot skate or rollerblade or do any of that fun stuff, because sometimes I injure myself just while trying to walk a straight line. I truly have no idea what the Big Man was thinking when he assembled my long, gangly legs onto this body, because they just don’t work well with what my brain thinks they should do.
Yesterday, sweet little Butters proved (yet again) that he is my child. He was playing in the bathtub while I blow-dried my hair, and in the mirror I could see that he kept standing up, splashing, prancing around, and then plopping down into the water. He had several little rubber duckies in the tub with him and was getting a kick out of watching them survive the tsunami he was creating. Super cute… but this is my child. I know that all cute things result in pain. I turned off the hair dryer and barked at him to sit down before he got hurt. He looked at me for a second, contemplating whether or not to comply, and then started to sit down in the water. But somehow his little foot slipped on a rogue rubber ducky and he crashed forward, hitting his face on the side of the tub. Oh. My. Gawd.
Chaos ensued. Water everywhere, him screaming, me trying to wrangle him out of the tub and onto a dry towel…I finally managed to pull his slippery little body out of the water and wrap him up, and when I moved the towel away from his face I cringed. A nasty welt about the size of a quarter had already formed just below his eye.
“Alright, Buddy… let’s go get some ice,” I said in my I’m-not-gonna-panic mommy voice.
“Nooooooo!” he wailed. I ignored him and got the ice pack, wrapped it in a cloth, and tried to press it gently to his face.
“Nooooooo!” he yelled again.
“Buddy, we have to put ice on it… you don’t want it swell up, do you?”
Um, okay. That At Fault Driver Lied To Insurance was weird.
“Buddy, come on. Let’s just hold the ice on it for a few minutes.”
“Nooooo! I want it to HURT!”
“What??” Trial Lawyer Salary
“I don’t want ice! I want it to HURT!”
Ooookay, Fight Club. What the hell? I fought with him for a solid 15 minutes, occasionally getting the ice pack to make contact with his face, but in the end I was afraid that his screaming was supplying more blood to the already ruptured blood vessels in his face and making the abrasion look worse, so I gave up. This morning he woke up with a nice black and blue eye socket, along with the nice red welt. Fabulous.
I was already not looking forward to the conversation I was going to have to have with his teacher…”Yes, I know he scraped his chin open last week… and now he has this , I know this looks really bad, but…”
And then, as I unbuckled him and got him out of his carseat to go into his school this morning, all I heard was, “Look, Mommy! I can run fast in my Crocs!” I wheeled around, but I was too late. I saw him trip, saw him put his hands down to break his fall, and then saw his bare knees scrape along the pavement. More screaming. Lots of blood. Confused parents gawking at me as I carried in a child who’d already clearly been in some sort of MMA fight and now was being attended to in a flurry of gauze, neosporin, and Band-Aids.
First thing out of his mouth? “I WANT GRANDMAAAAAA!” Forget that – I just want a plastic bubble to seal this kid in until he turns 18.

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