Chicks Dig Scars

Monday evening, we took a little walk. Baby Gray rode his bike, Mr. Gray and I walked Rooster. It was nice. 

Anytime we’re out, Baby Gray wants to go see fou-tain wa-wa (the fountain water), and Monday evening was no different. We usually let him run around a bit before heading home. Lately, we have been practicing jumping with two feet and landing on his feet. I encourage him to jump off pretty much anything I think he can stick. He doesn’t usually take too many liberties with this–he’s more cautious than I’d like sometimes. 

He jumps up and down stairs a lot. Usually, though, he jumps from the bottom step to the ground or he’s holding someone’s hand. I watched from across the gazebo as he set him self up to jump on the step. “Only from the bottom!” I called out to no avail. He tried to jump from the second step to the first step, but he overshot it. He toppled right onto his face on the sidewalk.

We had nothing with us, so after we dusted him off a little, we loaded him back onto his bike to head home. He wasn’t bothered by it at all. It looked much worse than it was. I posted a photo on Instagram, and the responses came rolling in, “Chicks dig scars.” 


I loved that that’s what people wrote. It flashed me back to December 2000, when Mr. Gray and I were first hanging out. He used to say that all the time. He meant it. Still does. I love how much of those first conversations I can remember. I’m glad at 16 my brain took an impression of something I’d treasure forever. 

Baby Gray is totally fine. We’ll head to his two year well-check this morning with a banged up face, but it’s not bothering him at all. 


He’ll love that he has a story to tell Dr. Miller.



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