At the ripe old age of 32, I’ve got my very first black eye. Sadly I can’t claim that it came from anything interesting. I didn’t get it fighting over my man at a bar. I didn’t catch a hockey puck with my eye. I didn’t jump in front of a moving train to save a baby.
No. I just sat on the floor and let my baby use me as a playground, managing to (not-so-gracefully) knock heads with him during the process. We both looked at each other, said “Ow” and went about our business. It wasn’t until the next day that I realized I was about to start fielding a lot of curious glances and nosy questions.
Well- now you know the official story: I’m clumsy and I grow clumsy kids. The End.