Westley hit his head three times today. After falling and scratching his forehead on my end table on the way down, he tripped over a cat toy and tumbled into the edge of my parents' coffee table an hour later. (The third time was a standard-issue bump against the ottoman this afternoon, just to scare me.) He has a cut on his brow bone, just above the outside corner of his right eye, and a bright blue-purple bruise to go with it. Grandad said, "You should see the other guy."
Poor West. He wailed and wailed, and when I scooped him up and held him against my chest, blood ran into his eye. For a minute, I was convinced he'd actually cut his eye, and it took everything I had to keep from panicking. Remarkably, he was pretty much back to normal before I even got off the phone with the nurse at the pediatrician's office. And now, judging from his general demeanor, you'd never know anything happened to him. Except that he looks a little like Rocky Balboa.
It's funny: I'm still feeling a little shaken by the whole Headbanging-fest, but the guy who actually crashed into the furniture is ready to get back out there and try it again. I'm going to be feeling a little gunshy with respect to coffee tables for a while. My son is still fearless, bruises and all.