As I was enjoying a tiny bit of peace and quiet this morning while I nursed Mary, my mind started wandering around (as it's prone to do when given the chance) and I found myself thinking how incredibly lucky I've been that my children don't seem to injure themselves as much as I did when I was young.
I remember one time, I couldn't have been more than four years old, when I was playing "Ballerina Gymnast" on my front porch. I decided to perform what should've been an amazing and graceful combination leap/pirouette from the porch to the lawn. Of course, it didn't come off quite the way I pictured it, and I somehow ended up with a cut on my forehead. The thing I remember most was lying in bed that night with a bandage on my forehead and thinking that if I took the bandage off you could probably see my brain and how nasty it would be if my brain got dirty. The mind of a four year old, huh?
I haven't really had to much use for Band-Aids in the Barefoot household yet (knock on wood). I have a feeling that will change as my son gets older and bolder, though.
I wonder, though, if my big girls have missed out on something by not getting those childhood bumps and bruises. Have I overprotectively shielded them too much? Is there a crucial piece of character development that comes from coping with the pain of minor accidents?
On the other hand, if this is the sort of thing I think up in the wee small hours of the morning, maybe it's a good thing I don't let my mind wander around too much.