Black eyed P

Well, I guess it’s safe to go out in public again with Parker.
Parker is 3, and one of the requirements for being a 3-year-old boy is complete and utter disregard for anything remotely resembling safety. And now that his very fine shiner has gone away, I feel I can venture out without people staring in a disapproving manner. (I always make a point of leaning in to the people and whispering, “The first rule of baby fight club, you don’t talk about baby fight club.”)
This is the third black eye he has had. The first two were courtesy of an aggressive coffee table that assaulted him on two different occasions.
His latest shiner came courtesy of a playground pole. And it also came with a valuable lesson: Pay attention. He was sprinting across the playground - which is currently the only speed he has right now - when a little girl called out to him. Poor, poor Parker. Learning so early that you CANNOT be distracted by the fairer sex. He turned to give a little howdy, and turned back around to WHAP! From the play-by-play I got, the pole stood its ground. Parker? Not so much.
When I got home from work, my wife called from upstairs. “I’m warning you - it’s bad.” When Parker came running to see me, I saw the shiner, and the first words out of my idiotic mouth were, “WHOAAA! AWESOME!!!”
I know, I know. I’m a horrible person. But there is something hard-wired in guys that when they see something like a shiner or a scar or 10-12 nails protruding from someone’s head, their immediate response is “COOOOOOOL!!!!” Parker, of course, thought his shiner was cool, too. Every few minutes, he would run up to me and said, “Daddy - look at my eye!”
Now, some of you out there may be reading this, gap-jawed that someone would be rather blasé about a kid getting his noggin knocked. Keep in mind a few things: (1) I knew he was fine by this point, as it had happened many hours prior and (2) I, at one point, was a 3-year-old boy, and three decades later, I still have the occasional injury type day. As I type this, my left foot hurts where I inadvertently banged it on the coffee table. And my mouth has a nasty sore spot where I bit into a piece of really hot pizza the other night. And, for some reason, my wife was able to (a) walk around the coffee table and (b) let the pizza cool off. Hmm.
As Parker gets older, I also find that he is, more than likely, part monkey. As I was as a boy, he is a climber. Loves to climb. Trees. Fences. Shelves. You name it. Perhaps he is trying to get back to his tree canopy home.
It is really wild to see the difference between Parker and his sister. Allie, who is almost 6, has had her share of bumps, bruises and scrapes. But she has always been a little more cautious than her feral brother. For example, I don’t recall her ever climbing to the top of the couch and jumping into a pile of laundry. (And I know what you’re thinking: “Who was watching him when he was allowed to do that?!?!?!?” And that is very similar to what my wife said. I explained that it was, in fact, not only safe but fun. She disagreed.)
It’s not that Allie is completely cautious. She loves tromping outside and playing on playgrounds and such. And fences? Made to be climbed. But she does it with, well, some planning. She plots out the climb and the descent and everything in between, whereas Parker will just end up on the roof somehow. (Relax. He’s never actually ended up on the roof. That his mother knows about. Ha! Kidding there. Seriously.)
One thing that is different with Parker and Allie is the way they deal with injuries. Parker doesn’t cry much from them, and when he does, it’s usually for a short spell. Plus, he’ll do the “Shake It Off” Dance, which always makes me chuckle. If Allie gets hurt, she would much rather just curl up in your lap and kinda be sad for a bit. Both, of course, think Band-Aids are magical cure-alls, and often go to bed with 15-20 on them. I don’t think you need a Band-Aid on your stomach when you have a tummy ache.
So although Parker will undoubtedly get banged up again, I hope it is minimal, and, although cool at first, I certainly hope he doesn’t get another shiner. (My last quality black eye was in the third grade, so he’s still got plenty of time to match me.) It’s hard to keep a boy from being a boy, so we’ll just have to make we’re there keeping an eye out for him. And that my wife is there to overrule.