Yesterday was obviously Father’s Day. And in this space I could write some sweeping sentimental tribute to the father of my children, or to my own dad even. Which I was planning to in some degree. They both definitely deserve it. However, something of more precedence happened, something that wrapped the day and parenting itself in a nutshell.
My son ran into a wall.
I’m afraid he gets his grace from me.
Apparently, Jedi was attempting to walk towards his dad with his eyes closed. This, in itself, was not a brilliant move. When he suddenly lunged full speed at the wall in front of him. He wasn’t hurt, save for a small lump on his forehead and a bit of pride lost. I was in the other room when it occurred, but I heard the loud thud and then my husband, laughing.
“Did he just run into the wall?”, I quickly peeked around to ask.
Laughing so hard he could barely answer, J finally replied, “Yes, he did”. I was then treated to a precise, comical reenactment.
My son, who would normally cry foul and stomp off to his room in embarrassment, whimpered only briefly before cracking up at himself, too. A boy runs headfirst into the wall and it’s nothing if not funny.
Because what is a day celebrating parenthood if you can’t laugh at your kids.