It's just a flesh wound

Currently the kids and I are sporting coordinating forehead contusions.

I got mine in the middle of the night last week when I got up to go to the bathroom and slammed my head into the granite countertop. You'll either deduce that I'm two feet three inches tall, or that I'm a moron who didn't back up enough toward the toilet before starting to sit down. Trying to avoid the inevitable, hideous bruising, I stumbled to the kitchen for an ice cube. Then I spent the next ten minutes lying in bed giving myself an ice cream headache on top of the already pulsing pain. But the extra distress paid off, since I awoke the next morning with only some slight swelling. I spent the day doing my best Courteney Cox Arquette impression, trying to speak and express all my emotions without moving my sore forehead. All that's left now is a faint, lentil-green bruise.

As is usually the case, Bugglegirl was the unfortunate victim of her three-year-old temper. She was trying to karate kick her bedroom door down during a time-out when Buggledad burst in and inadvertently smacked the edge of the door into her head. Hence the vertical, purple welt above her right eye.

Poor Buggleboy spent Sunday evening at the Bugglecousins' house impaling and bludgeoning himself upon every metal, wood and concrete surface available. The goose egg with a red bruise running parallel to his right eyebrow is merely the worst of the night's boo-boos. He refused to let anyone put ice on it, and now I know why.

The things I do for my children.