one tough cookie

I grew up as the runt in a family with five older brothers and a sister. Though it is clear that they all love me, as a kid I got my share of abuse, probably from each of them, in one form or another—noogies, sucker punches, charley horses, takedowns, put-downs, red-bellies, arm twists, dirty tricks. I guess surviving it has made me into one tough cookie.

Since Calvin was born I’ve had my ears boxed, my hair yanked, my kidneys punched, ovaries kicked, jugular vein jerked, eyeballs poked and whacked, nose bit, forehead bonked, neck scraped, arm chomped, stomach scratched, ears tugged, eardrums burst, heart broken, and psyche beat, battered and bruised—but none of it did Calvin do on purpose.

I’ve also had my back stroked, head caressed, knee patted, neck hugged, face nuzzled, belly kneaded, hand held, nose kissed, heart warmed, spirits uplifted and person loved—and all of it he does on purpose.

In an instant Calvin can make this tough cookie melt like butter.

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