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Just WHAT is it with teenage boys and pointy, shiny, sharp things?

I blame my husband. He was the same way, as were all of his friends. At any point in time, there was anywhere from 2-6 sharp pointy objects on his person. Pocket knives, box cutters, and for a long time a belt buckle that was actually a tiny little blade. When he and his friends ‘unloaded’ before heading to the airport to go to Vegas for a week, you would not BELIEVE the pile of various sharp pointy objects that covered my coffee table! It was very, very amusing. And sort of disconcerting, but mostly amusing.

The Boy has inherited this love of all things containing a blade and the possibility for injury. He’s also certain he’s inherited the content of the Sword Case, too. We’re still negotiating that. He has already started his own collection of various blades and swords that he and his buddies mix, match and combine often – including practice swords made of bamboo to fight with his friends. I didn’t know this, of course, until recently. It went a little something like this. Two days after the fact.

Me: Good lord boy – is that a bruise or are you really that in need of a shower?
Boy: It’s a bruise..
Me: (examines it closer – including the fact that his wrist was SWOLLEN and the whole bruise, about the size of my palm, was painful to the touch) WTF? Who hit you? What happened?
Boy: Um. So, we were fighting with the bamboo swords, and it was dark and I kinda can’t see well in the dark like you and I went to block, and I missed and blocked with my hand instead of the sword…
Me: ….. doesn’t it hurt? (Not gonna lie, I poked it. I CAN’T RESIST a new bruise.. I must poke. MUST.)
Boy: OW! YES MOM! IT HURTS!
Me: Is it broken – I don’t like the look of the swelling… (Calm. Must remain calm.)
Boy: No, see, I can move everything, it’s just a wicked bruise.
Me: Ok. Um, you didn’t say who it was you were dueling..
Boy: S.
Me:…. HAHAHHA YOU GOT BEAT UP BY A GIRL!!!!

Ahem. Yes, the wound inflicted upon my 6’1″ tall son, who’s built like a linebacker, was delivered by a wee slip of a girl who actually has a variation of his own name. Verily, I was amused. Still worried about the bruises, but amused none the less. They’re clearing up fine now, of course, as is the cut he received when he didn’t quite dodge his own hand as he swung around something with an actual blade on it. But still..

…I don’t get it. They get bruises, they wear them with pride. They get cut on occasion, and come in dripping blood to just dab it off, check to see how deep it is (usually not very – I haven’t had to take him in for stitches yet, anyway.) and go back to swinging giant swords at each other again. Or small blades. Or bamboo practice swords. Or… or… or.

And I’m at a loss. Who can explain this love of combat with swords and the like to me? I indulge it, sure. I wince a lot, absolutely. I make sure they know the difference between play fighting, and crossing that line into anger, where all things stop right the heck now before someone REALLY gets hurt. I even oooh and ahhh properly over the latest pretties they’ve acquired.

And I worry… and wonder. WHERE does this come from?

Anyone? Beuller? Beuller?
(And I won’t EVEN get into how old it made me feel when my son said “Who’s Beuller?!” Sigh.)

One Response to “Alright, explain!”