As the mother of a little boy (with another one on the way), I’ve been warned by several friends (most of whom have only boys, oddly enough) that little boys are fun and energetic (true and true). But I’ve also been told that I have to be prepared for accidents, ER trips, dirt and yes, blood. Great.
Over the last two years and two months, I have certainly grown a thicker skin. Jake has had black and blue knots the size of golf balls on his forehead from tripping over nothing more than his toddling feet. He performed the classic toddler move of planting face-first into the side of our coffee table, and then bleeding from his mouth all over me. (We quickly replaced that table with a cushioned one.) He has had black eyes and fat lips, and he constantly has bruised knees and legs – most likely because he has a habit of walking (or running, really) without looking where he is going.
But now my active little guy has reached yet another milestone. He is a climber – a fact we have known since before he could even stand up by himself – and that brings with it a whole host of other issues. His most recent challenge to tackle? The crib.
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