A trip to the lake this weekend resulted in a nice scratch over my son’s eye. (Not something new considering he’s a seven-year-old boy and minor injuries kinda come with the territory.) The scratch was red over the weekend but by Monday morning, a nice purple gash had developed stretching from his eyebrow to his lower lid.
On the way to school I noticed him looking at himself in the rear-view mirror.
“You know, Mom, I kinda like my cut.”
“It doesn’t hurt anymore?” I asked.
“Nope, and it kinda makes me look like Anakin Skywalker in Episode III, when he has that big scar on his eye.”
I smiled. “Yeah, I guess it does. You can tell your friends how you and Grandpa were wrestling and say something like you should see the other guy.” Of course super-tough Grandpa wasn’t really hurt but the wrestling part was true enough.
He thought for a minute. “No … I think I’m going to say that I got it playing basketball. Like someone fought with me for the ball but I got it and made a basket.”
I was going to argue the importance of telling the truth but figured, what the heck. His version was better and sports scars are just too cool to pass up when you’re in the second grade.