In our house we have a rule called “no blood, no band-aid” — it’s part of the idea that I don’t give excess sympathy for the countless bumps and bruises, a “shake it off” mentality. (That makes me sound rotten doesn’t it?)
So last night Morgan was giving a performance like one I’ve not seen in a long time (and hope to not see again for some time to come.) Anyway I’ve shut him up in his room and he’s screaming and crying and making a major production out of the fact that he didn’t get his way at the precise second he finally decided to get with the program. Then there was a crash, an out of the ordinary crash. Matt and I go rushing in to find him naked and bleeding.
Somehow he managed to bite his tongue while doing some kind of acrobatics between his toddler bed and dresser.
Off to the bathroom we go and manage to get him calmed down a bit. With his tongue sticking out of his mouth he asks “Can I have a band-aid now?”
Life With Boys 
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