Where The Heart Is

My son is a little scared sometimes. It's still normal because he's only 3, but every once in a while I want to tell one of those death-defying stories about a fearless toddler. Well, I finally get to. See, he decided this weekend that it was time to experience some new things. So, while we were at the park, he jumped off the seven-foot rock climbing thing... twice.

The first time was fine. He landed on the chopped up rubber blocks and ran off. But the second time, I think he got a little cocky. He decided that he was a professional now, so there was no need to nail the landing. So he landed at a weird angle and broke both of his ankles. Okay, not really. He just crumpled a little bit and didn't land as well as the first time. So he hurt his rib a little bit. He doesn't even have a bruise. It was just a little strain or something. But my son doesn't know the word "rib," nor does he know the word "chest." All he knows is that the area that is sore is where his heart is. So he walked around all weekend, clutching his chest, whispering, "Daddy, my heart hurts." It was pathetic, adorable, and pretty funny.

In reality, the only time he was telling the truth about the pain was when we were at the park. But he caught on pretty quick to the fact that talking about a broken heart got him attention. So he kept saying it for the sympathy and the laughs. And since he can fake injuries so well, I think we're gonna have to enroll him in European soccer.