I can now say I have had a first-degree burn on my boob. And like many other injuries, it came from my kid.
Ever since she hit me in the eye with a spiky light-up ball when she was 6 months old, my darling daughter has inflicted injury upon me. More than anyone else in her life, I have been slapped, kicked, bitten, punched. She’s thrown things at my head. Kicked my c-section scar. Smacked me so hard I lost a contact lens. Punched me in the throat. Now we can add “doused me in hot tea” to that list.
Some of the assaults, like the tea incident, are accidental. Klutz happens, and she’s a bit too young to think through her actions. Others, like the biting, are deliberate. She pulls her punches with everyone else, but not me.
She’s always sorry afterwards. Ashamed. And I comfort her, reassuring her that nothing will make me stop loving her.
I think that’s why she doesn’t pull her punches with me: She knows that, of everyone in her life, I will always be there. No matter what she does. It’s an indication of her faith in our bond that she feels safe enough to push limits with me.
As crazy as it makes me sometimes, I love that she trusts me that much. I consider it part of my job to ensure she always does.