It's no secret that The Pony has mindbogglin' noggin issues.
From the time he could sit up, the #1 son ran by him and slapped him on his head, chanting, "Baby Smacky! Baby Smacky!" The Pony thought it was a game. He grinned and grimaced and did his best to gaze up adoringly at his big brother until slowly toppling over.
Before he even walked, The Pony was a tiny headbanger of the first order. We found him one evening under a three-foot tall potted plant. Trapped. He had pulled the wooden-staked plant over on himself, making sure that the stake left a red mark on his forehead.
Once he became ambulatory, The Pony cantered through the Mansion, whacking his melon on open drawers, jutting countertops, protruding doorknobs, bathroom pedestal sinks, doorjambs, table legs, wooden armrests on soft sofas, metal heating vents on cushy carpets, windowsills, and all four corners of the heavy metal legs holding a giant, freestanding cutting block.
At daycare, no trip down the slide was complete without The Pony rearing back and slamming his skull on the molded plastic. The swingset was a gauntlet to be conquered, no matter how many times a bobbing toddler butt knocked him over into the pea gravel.
Rides home from school in T-Hoe and his predecessors were not the safe transport purported by booster seat manufacturers. THUMP! On the same gravel curve every day, The Pony's head slammed into his window. "Ow! I keep telling myself not to do that!"
Last month, he had a knot on his forehead from bending over too close to the cutting block.
This morning The Pony loaded my school bag into T-Hoe's rear compartment. I heard the "ding ding" of the hatch-closing warning chime. I turned just in time to see the pointy corner of the black metal door contact The Pony's skull. "I'm OK!"
Thank the Gummi Mary the garage door has a sensor that stops its descent when even a cat is in its path.