To use the vernacular, I feel like I've had a piss-poor parenting week. My Dear Boy is bearing the scars, literally. My rookie mistakes led to a mad dash to the clinic on a Sunday evening and four hours of concussion observation, a scratch on his forehead and a blister on his hip. Somehow, through all that, he still manages to smile and to laugh and to giggle and to curl his little chubbsy hand around my neck. Maybe that's a triumph all of its own.