The Husband: Leave Some Skin on the Pavement

Our six year-old son Jackson received a fantastic birthday present this year: his very first skateboard. And of course his parents, being the incredibly responsible individuals they are, outfitted him with an impressive array of protective gear to go along with said skateboard. The poor boy, when he wants to ride the skateboard, has to go through a 15-minute ritual in which he dawns  a space-age helmet and more pads than an NHL goalie. When he's finished, he looks like he's ready to go on American Gladiators.

Jackson has to wear all of this body armor because his skateboard is, in fact, specifically designed to maim him when tries to ride it. The skateboard fulfills its purpose each time it flings Jackson wildly into the air and sends him crashing to the concrete on our back patio.

Think about it: a skateboard is a flat, narrow piece of wood bolted to four small wheels, highly greased so that when force is applied it shoots incredibly fast in whatever direction happens to be convenient. As an illustration for this argument, let's say you're having a friend over for dinner and you want to break his leg when he arrives. I challenge you to find a more efficient way of accomplishing this than simply placing a skateboard right inside the front door and turning the lights out.

Yes indeed, skateboards are dangerous things. Which is why I was so pleased to give one to my son in the hope that he will acquire some truly memorable battle scars this summer. Few things are more important to building a young boy's self confidence than gnarly scabs he can show off to his friends. We didn't just give Jackson a skateboard, we gave him bragging rights.

In these days of rubber-padded playgrounds, class-action lawsuits and safety warnings voluminous enough to fill the Library of Congress, every healthy child should be afforded the opportunity to pick up some good old-fashioned scrapes, bruises, cuts, sprains and minor bodily disfigurements. It's good for them.

My own childhood would have been considerably less satisfying if I had not tried to crack my head open a few times (okay, more than a few times). The street in front of the house I grew up in is probably still marked with a healthy smattering of my flesh and blood. I remember one birthday on which I too opened brightly colored wrapping paper to reveal a four-wheeled death trap and, with a dozen of my friends watching, lugged it to the top of a nearby hill. I placed my foot on the board, took a deep breath, and prepared for my descent into glory. I was planning to swoosh down the hill making long, graceful S-curves, knees bent perfectly, arms casually at my side like a pro. I would then be greeted by the congratulatory shouts of my friends and hearty slaps on the back.

Unfortunately, when I arrived at the bottom of the hill I was no longer on the skateboard. In fact, by the time my limp, battered body tumbled to a stop, the skateboard was on top of me. Behind me, stretching for 20 feet or so on the pavement, was a streak of skin taken from the entire left side of my body. I stood up, dusted myself off, and basked in a different kind of glory: the glory of a man who has just given himself a flesh wound while doing something stupid.

And that's only one example. A few feet away from the scene of my first downhill skateboarding attempt is a curb that permanently bears the indentation of my front teeth. I can still remember that moment, suspended in time, as I went flying over the handle bars of my bicycle with the words "I AM GOING TO DIE" flashing in my brain like a bright yellow neon sign. When I came to, I was slightly disappointed not to find myself standing at the pearly gates with Peter looking down at me and saying in a deep, booming voice, "Well son, you're dead. But that was such an awesome crash, we're going to send you back down again. Props to you."

I'm thinking I might take Jackson to my old street sometime and show him the faded evidence of my past attempts to place myself permanently on a liquid diet. It would probably make him feel a little better about his own gruesome wrecks on our back patio. And it would also emphasize an important lesson that I want both my kids to learn (a lesson I'm struggling to remember in adulthood): life is much more fun, interesting and fulfilling when you're willing to leave some skin on the pavement.