The Dude seems determined to draw blood from his own body at least twice a month. His biological clock must have an alarm labeled "bloodletting." When it goes off, a hormone is released that makes him clumsy enough to fall or fly or jump or dodge just the wrong way in order to fulfill the requirement.
Usually it involves teeth and lips; very rarely does it involve knees or elbows or any other easily scraped up or bangable part that would normally be associated with childhood accidents. (Although I am very glad he did not inherit his uncle's alarm labeled "stitches needed.")
Innovation of this week: involving the tongue. I can't say I'm attached to this addition. It meant a lot more blood. Which got on him, on me, and on the cement. Which meant more panic. Which meant more screaming. Which took more time to calm down to actually see the damage. Which turned out not to be horribly bad.
Yes, the tongue was not bitten through and did not require stitches. Although not severed, it still requires some special care. The poor darling has to have more milkshakes than usual. (I'm hoping this doesn't fall under positive reinforcement.)
On the bright side: now I know what bloodstained pavement looks like! Can't wait to bite my own tongue to have a good excuse to have a (chocolate) milkshake of my own!
1 comment:
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I still think of him whenever I eat something acidic.
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