It really was innocent enough. I was only carrying him walking out of my bedroom to change his diaper and I must have tickled his back because he arched it backward like he always does, but this time it was exactly as we were clearing the door. His forehead smacked against the edge of the door frame. Lots of screaming, lots of swelling, lots of blood rushing to the surface, but no broken skin. No blood. PHEW! Blood makes everything seem worse.
So as the mark started healing (which reminds me how remarkable his little body is healing so quickly), I began to think about how glad I was that his first scar wouldn't be because I smacked his head against a door when he was 9.5 months old. What a terrible story that would be growing up. I don't know that I remember my very first scar. I do have many. I have to say that I never once broke a bone (knocking on wood as I type) but I was a pretty clumsy kid. I have had many, many stitches.
The scar on my forehead is from the milking parlor on the farm. I was maybe 4 or 5 and I was running down to the parlor because it was milking time and I wanted to help Pop Pop (by help I mean lean against the wall giggling when the cows pooed). The parlor was at the bottom of what was then a VERY steep hill (thats how I remember it). I was running so fast I couldn't stop and I literally ran right into the concrete wall. Blood and stitches. And that hill now is barely steep enough for a ball to roll down. Someone must have leveled it after my accident. Probably.
The scars on my knees are from the summer before the third grade. I was riding my big sisters bike, one with actual hand brakes and gears. I didn't know what the heck I was doing and was never very good on a bike. I couldn't remember how to stop when going down a hill - also very steep like the one on the farm - so I put my foot down and ended up flipping across the road scraping my knees to shreds. Blood and stitches. I had to walk around like a penguin without bending my knees for a whole month. To this day, I prefer a stationary bike at the gym. That scar though, especially the one on my right knee, looks like a fish. My best friend growing up, Jared, and I named it Herman. Because thats what you do when you are 8 and you get a big scar. You show it off and give it a name. I still smile and think of Jared when I see my big ugly fish scar.
My most recent scar is a baking injury. It's a dangerous hobby. Especially when you start baking a 12" layer cake at 10:30 pm and over fill the pans leading them to pour over in the oven almost catching the kitchen on fire. It's a nasty, ugly, fresh scar, but I'll look at it and remember I did it baking my best friend's baby shower cake. It was worth it.
My inside scars are harder to show. Scarred by the fire. Scarred by Henry. Scarred by all kinds of crazy ass stuff that life brings. The injuries burn at first. But then, like our skin, they start to itch and heal.
I got an email today from someone who runs a few fabulous websites who recently talked about her miscarriages. I started thinking that she has a scar like mine. Without even knowing her, aside from some lovely email correspondence, I found myself wanting to sit with her as my 8 year old self and think of a funny name for her scar. To make her feel better.
I realized that this blog, and my photography are my way of showing off my scars like we all used to as kids. Showing that I was brave and only cried a little bit - or maybe a lot. Showing off my blood and stitches. My neon band-aid. Scratching the itch that comes with healing.
The next time, I might not be so lucky and that innocent little bump of the head could turn into Sam's first scar. And it will be ok. We'll name it after my fish. I always liked the name Herman.
The scar on my forehead is from the milking parlor on the farm. I was maybe 4 or 5 and I was running down to the parlor because it was milking time and I wanted to help Pop Pop (by help I mean lean against the wall giggling when the cows pooed). The parlor was at the bottom of what was then a VERY steep hill (thats how I remember it). I was running so fast I couldn't stop and I literally ran right into the concrete wall. Blood and stitches. And that hill now is barely steep enough for a ball to roll down. Someone must have leveled it after my accident. Probably.
The scars on my knees are from the summer before the third grade. I was riding my big sisters bike, one with actual hand brakes and gears. I didn't know what the heck I was doing and was never very good on a bike. I couldn't remember how to stop when going down a hill - also very steep like the one on the farm - so I put my foot down and ended up flipping across the road scraping my knees to shreds. Blood and stitches. I had to walk around like a penguin without bending my knees for a whole month. To this day, I prefer a stationary bike at the gym. That scar though, especially the one on my right knee, looks like a fish. My best friend growing up, Jared, and I named it Herman. Because thats what you do when you are 8 and you get a big scar. You show it off and give it a name. I still smile and think of Jared when I see my big ugly fish scar.
My most recent scar is a baking injury. It's a dangerous hobby. Especially when you start baking a 12" layer cake at 10:30 pm and over fill the pans leading them to pour over in the oven almost catching the kitchen on fire. It's a nasty, ugly, fresh scar, but I'll look at it and remember I did it baking my best friend's baby shower cake. It was worth it.
My inside scars are harder to show. Scarred by the fire. Scarred by Henry. Scarred by all kinds of crazy ass stuff that life brings. The injuries burn at first. But then, like our skin, they start to itch and heal.
I got an email today from someone who runs a few fabulous websites who recently talked about her miscarriages. I started thinking that she has a scar like mine. Without even knowing her, aside from some lovely email correspondence, I found myself wanting to sit with her as my 8 year old self and think of a funny name for her scar. To make her feel better.
I realized that this blog, and my photography are my way of showing off my scars like we all used to as kids. Showing that I was brave and only cried a little bit - or maybe a lot. Showing off my blood and stitches. My neon band-aid. Scratching the itch that comes with healing.
The next time, I might not be so lucky and that innocent little bump of the head could turn into Sam's first scar. And it will be ok. We'll name it after my fish. I always liked the name Herman.
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