"Maybe," thought his little 2-year-old head, "I can get a view of the firetruck/police car/ambulance from here."
Instead I heard a crash. And then a boom. And then a loud hurty cry.
A hurty cry is the kind where you know they're really hurt. They're not whining. They're not just scared. They're not just trying to get attention.
So I ran into his room and scooped him into my arms and cradled his head against my chest. It was when he finally caught his breath and his tear-stained head emerged that I noticed the blood stains on my white t-shirt. I cupped his face in my hands and saw the bright red streak on his left eyebrow.
Sigh. Boys. They can never let a dull morning just be.
The rest of the day has consisted of him begging me to lift him up so he can see himself in the bathroom mirror.
"Look at my battle wound," he says to the boy in the mirror. "RAAAAAR!"
Then he turns to me, "That's scary Mommy, right?"
But then again, maybe he's not all boy. Maybe he just wanted one to match the other side.