Porter has always been my wild child, never slowing down. He’s as cowboy as they come, but also has a sweet spot in his rowdy outer shell. He’s the kid that looks at you with a grin as he does something mischievous. Often times one of us will get on to him, while the other tries to hide their laughter. He’s our tornado and we’re never bored with him around.

Last week he went to the farm with Jake for the day, and when I saw him that evening I commented on how dirty his face was. He must’ve had a full day of pushing toy tractors through the dirt. Upon closer inspection I gasped “IS THAT BLOOD ALL OVER HIS FACE?!”

It was. A goose egg, scrape, and nasty bruise on his forehead was being covered up by his hair. On the entire top of his nose, where there had once been skin, there was now dried blood and scabs. And the rest of his face didn’t look much better.

He fell and hit the shop floor face first. And the floor won. Jake said he only cried for a few minutes and was fine, but every time I look at his face it makes me grimace. It looks so painful.

I cleaned him up in a warm bubble bath, and wrapped him up in his towel, calling him my baby burrito. We looked in the mirror and he smiled and said “I had blood coming out of my nose AND mouth, mama! Yeah boy, cowboy!”

I laughed. I laughed at this little boy who can’t be slowed down, and I laughed at his outlook on life. He’s got it right, even if he’s only three.

He got knocked down, cried about it while it hurt, then grinned at his scars. I can learn a lot from that boy, because sometimes it takes me too long to move from hurt and into the appreciating my scars phase. It’s in the scars where the lessons are learned.