Boo-boos and writing

I was going to write today about Andrew's rough week - the falls (seems like every day), the scrapes (last weekend), the fat lip (Wednesday), but then Elizabeth's writing last night captured my attention, too. So first Andrew - this has been a rough week for the little guy. Last Saturday, somehow he tried climbing the wall in our backyard and slipped and scraped up all the knuckles on his left hand, and so he's been sporting impressive scabs. Maybe because of the scabs, he's been pretty focused on his hand as his boo-boo, so even though he's fallen and gotten subsequent extremely minor injuries, if you ask him about his boo-boo he holds out his hand. I kiss it every time he holds it out and one day he asked, Do you love my boo-boo?

The other notable injury occurred when he tripped over the rug in the kitchen and smacked down on his face, giving him a fat upper lip and a crack in his lower lip. Neither seem to bother him at all. He's fallen out of the stroller more times this week than we can count (since he insists on climbing in and out himself), and once fell climbing off a chair, smacking his head on the floor.

I of course scoop him up and he cries hard while I feel around for any injuries. But, tough boy that he is, I'll say, ok, let's calm down - tell mommy what hurts? And he'll calm down and most of the time say, scary! and just need a little comfort from the scary part of the fall. We've learned you have to be precise with your wording - if you try to ask where he fell or what he fell on (trying to figure out what part of him hurts) he just looks at you and says, the floor! (Duh, mommy!) But nothing phases him for too long, and after a quick cuddle he's always right back where he left off.

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Last night at dinner Elizabeth had a pad of paper and a pen. One of the issues with her writing struggles has always been that her imagination works much faster than her writing skills could possibly approach. So sometimes, she narrates a story and chicken scratches on the paper while she speeds along in her own world. We were a little alarmed at the start of this story:
Yep, bad boys. Ut oh! But then she started in on the story part, and there is no way I could ever even capture the complexity of her stories, but apparently the boys were henpecked but the farmer was really worried about the foxes but the chickens took care of it and then the bad boys were henpecked some more. That's the vastly abridged version. Or something like it.