Fists and Roses

So the 2-year-old comes trotting down the hall. He stops when he sees me and beams. Some sister has carefully arranged a beautiful circlet on his head just so, its flowers half buried in his curly hair, the ribbons hanging down in ever so lovely a manner.

He stands there a moment so I can admire. Then a gleam comes into his eye and he charges, slamming into me full force, trying as hard as he can to knock me down. Despite his best efforts, he doesn’t. Instead, he bounces off and sits down hard and proceeds to belly laugh for half a minute before getting up and trotting off again.

Boys are different.


About the other scott peterson

Writer of comics and books and stuff.
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