One thing I love most about Mike is his hands. They’re big. We can’t hold hands while interlocking fingers because it makes my hands hurt after a few minutes. They’re strong. I never have and never will win a tickle fight. They’re also covered with tons of little scars.

After we had dated for several months, I asked him about that. What’s with all the scars? His response: I was a good kid. He didn’t mean he ate all his peas and said yes ma’am and went to youth group every week. He meant he was good at being a kid.

He played. He ran. He fell down. He got cut and scratched and scraped. His mom didn’t keep him inside, safe on the couch, reading a book. His dad didn’t tell him he couldn’t play baseball because he might mess up his shoulder.

I dig that. I want to raise kids who are good at being kids.

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