Lucas nestled in my arms this afternoon, nursing quietly in between fits of talkativeness and enthusiastic whapping of various toys. I held his left arm--thick and padded--in my hand. I thought about the miniature skeleton underneath it, so delicate and sturdy at the same time.
Then, I noticed it--his scar.
A few weeks ago, we discovered that Lucas was strong enough to open the oven door entirely on his own. We learned it the hard way. Yes, he cried, but not nearly as much as his injury warranted. An ugly scab formed in a loose crescent shape on his left forearm. As with many childhood injuries, it dissipated quickly, almost miraculously.
The skin is now pink and smooth in a plastic way, as though someone taped the scar on to his soft, delicate baby skin. I'm sure it will fade easily over time. I may grow to miss the scar, even, because it symbolizes my boy's strength and curiosity.
I hope he's learned his lesson about ovens, though.
