Lethal Weapon

I’m going to take Michael down to the FBI office and have his head registered. I’m sure there will be a lot of paperwork and an extensive background check we’ll have to go through, but for the good of the family and, very likely, the community, I must register Michael’s head as a lethal weapon.

“The Melon”, as I refer to it, is routinely used by Michael to deliver mortal blows upon any and all who are within striking distance.

I have mentioned before that Michael leads with his head. Well, he’s grown up a bit now, and he isn’t tripping over his own feet as much or running into things quite as often, but that skull of his is still as dense and solid as Brazilian Ipe wood. No doubt it acquired this level of solidity during those early months where his every encounter involved knocking his noggin on something or other. His body obviously compensated by sending all of his bone mass up to fortify his skull. I’m sure it’s a full inch and a half thick by now.

As such, he’s developed quite a good, strong set of neck muscles as well. It’s necessary to support and wield that massive structure perched atop his neck.

Now mind you, his head is not large. Let us not be confused by my terminology. He looks perfectly normal from the outside. He is, dare I say it, a very cute little kid. To look at his strawberry-blonde locks, blue eyes, rosy cheeks and innocent smile, you’d never suspect what kind of destruction he can wreak.

Typically, the crushing strike is without warning, and usually during play time. And it usually happens to his mom or one of his sisters (for some reason they simply haven’t accepted and internalized the fact that he can and will hurt them if they get too close – I always hold him out at arms length for a good reason, and I’m relatively uninjured as a result). They’re playing with Michael, something relatively innocuous and non-physical like singing a song, or making faces, or tickle torture or something simple. He’s enjoying himself, smiling and probably giggling.

And then, he’ll start getting silly. This is the warning sign. He starts making goofy sounds and flinging his arms.

And then, he’ll toss his head back as hard as he can. Like a medieval flail.

Now, I fully believe that he is unaware of his powers. He’s enjoying himself, and trying to maximize that enjoyment by engaging in the activity of throwing himself around. He’s a kinetic little guy, a true verb, and as such he likes to move.

But that head connects with whatever happens to be in its way. Almost always this unwary stationary object is softer than his cranium, and it’s usually the head of whomever he’s playing with. Clonk! This will send the sister in question to the floor in utter agony, or will force his mom to curl up into a defensive posture and eventually ask for ice and Ibuprofen.

Michael, of course, is unscathed. And, usually a bit mystified as to what just happened. He carries on as though nothing at all occurred, and may ask “What happened, mama?” or the like, addressing the appropriate injured party. And then he’ll ask someone else to play. The others quickly find something else they suddenly remember they have to do.

Just last week my poor wife ended up with a fat lip and very nearly a broken nose from this blunt-force trauma. And she wonders why, whenever he’s jumping around on the couch next to me, I have my arms wrapped around my head in defense. I take no chances! I’ve gotten nailed by it before, it’s serious business.

But Michael’s Dome Of Doom could come in handy in case I had to use it to protect us all in a situation requiring quick defense, like during a home invasion robbery. My only concern is that if I did, I might be charged with use of excessive force.