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End of an era

5/30/2017

Last Saturday my son, the prince, graduated from the United States Military Academy at West Point and was commissioned Second Lieutenant in the United States Army. So ends a journey that began when he was in sixth grade and decided that he wanted to be in the Army.

I'm not sure if he would do it again the same way if he had to do it all over, but he picked it. And despite having the opportunity to back out with no penalty during those first two miserable years, he didn't and has now joined an extremely select group of men and women. Probably THE most select group of men and women in this country.

I am extremely proud of him. You all will be too.

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Wanna know how I got these scars?

5/09/2017

I was having an interesting conversation with my family last night. The Beast has just had his wisdom teeth out; of course that makes me feel not at all old and decrepit, a little rusty, and probably impotent, and we were trying to figure out what to do about the stitches. Then I noticed. None of my kids have ever had stitches unless it was part of a procedure. Seriously. They've busted teeth, got black eyes, and almost hanged themselves, but they've never had a "friend" jam a hockey stick through the front spokes of their bicycle and go face first into the pavement. None of my kids have ever broken their nose. I don't think any of them have seen a glass topped table, never mind headbutting one. They haven't walked through sliding glass doors, ridden their bikes into lit barbeque grills, walked into open locker doors, fallen down stairs, jumped head first onto open dresser drawers, or even ever had to tell the ambulance guy "I dun't remember how it happened, don't tell my mom."

My kids have had broken bones, both real and imaginary, but they've never been hit in the face on a dare with the side of a tennis racquet. I don't know if that's good or bad. Really.

I'm a little afraid of what will happen the first time they see a huge pool of their own blood. Will they freak out? I know I did the first time... and the second.. and third... then it got a little routine. Still hurt, but I wasn't afraid of bleeding to death.

I really can't tell you how often I've had stitches. I have a scar on the top of my head from a car trunk lid (I got the My First Concussion playset for Christmas), one above my right eye from God only knows, a good ol' frankenstein right in the middle of my forehead, a small one over my lip from the tennis racquet fiasco, two on my chin, and one on my right ear where they sewed it back on. I have a smallish bump on my nose from a walking issue and scars all over my legs, knees, and hands. It got so bad that my father used to keep a suture set and Novocaine in the refrigerator.

I'm not saying my kids have never really hurt themselves, they've all busted teeth for example, and like I've said, broken bones. But the scars aren't there. And that's what worries me. How will they know that their kid will survive that long walk through the closed sliding glass door of life?

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