Bountiful Blemishes

I remember the first time my little boy was blemished.
I was so sorry that I let him get hurt. Mad at myself that he was no longer "perfect"!
I made special socks so he would not slip on the tile floors. I researched childproofing so that he would not bump his precious head on a corner.
And then another bruise followed a knot on the head or a scrap to the knee, even under the most careful eye.
Most from little explorations.
My second son had a series of scratches on his cheeks from his big brother.  Thankfully a phase that has been outgrown.  My heart ached to see my 1 year old with a scratch upon his beautiful cheeks.

And now:
When I put my boys in the bath I notice a little scraped knee, or a small bruise, a mosquito bite or a slight scratch.  I could be sad, but I decided to look at what they were doing while they received these bites of life.
Climbing a tree, chasing our chickens home, riding a bike, while completely engulfed in play.
I decided to say to myself: These are beautiful bruises, marks of a life well lived.
I have heard my father-in-law say several times.  "It takes seven scars to make a man". I must agree with him here and add that bountiful blemishes add character in the form of life lived and a bit of humbling reality, because sometimes we must all be brought back to earth.

Several months ago I acquired beautiful ceramic tiles that were being given away.  I thought they would make a pretty stepping stone type path through my flower garden.  I did not factor in the speed at which my boys move outside.  Of course in the first week, my eldest cut his toe on a broken tile.  Months later the scar remains. He still remembers what the scar is from and may for the rest of his days. Hopefully his memory will be of the carefree manner in which he ran from the door on an adventure and not of the pain from the cut.

Through observation and study I realize that my strongest memories come from a time when my emotions were the strongest.  All I have to do is look at the palm of my right hand, spy the flat scar, and I remember riding roller skates on the sidewalks of my hometown.  I look at my mother's doll Annie that we were allowed to play with as children and I remember the saga between my sisters of whose turn had come to play with her.  Oh, there were tears! And lessons to be learned.

We forgot shoes on a trip to the orchard.

I must remember this when there are tears and it seems that I can't deal with another tear or administer another band aid.  Thus is life, the way we learn.
I would prefer my sons have mosquito bites (so many that one wonders if they have chicken pox at times), because they spent an hour in the sandbox or a fun day of play, rather than, to stay indoors because we are afraid.  Fear stalls learning rather than developing it.
I may wonder how they acquired such a bruise or scrap. I will offer sympathy, but I will not feel guilt.
For these Bountiful Blemishes are all experiences that will make them into the men they were meant to be.