You brace yourself when your tot takes a tumble, but you never acknowledge the bumps and bruises that are inevitable as a parent. There are the ones you notice — when your wee one flips back her head as you look down and the bridge of your nose stings so badly your eyes fill — and, then there are the ones you are oblivious to like the toe marks on your stomach made by aspiring acrobats jumping across your midsection in such glee that you don't feel the painful indentations.
I rarely remember the gashes I get lunging across a playground structure to grab my son before he jumps off the side; Or, count the times I've whacked my forehead wrangling my kids into their carseats and hoisting the stroller into the tailgate. It's when I glance in a dressing room mirror and catch the colorful spots, scrapes and scratches that periodically appear on my body that I try to recall what it was like when I was childless and a box of band-aids lasted me several years. It's almost impossible. I'd much rather have the crushing hugs and tickle attacks that come with the noticeable imperfections.