While getting Jackson ready for his bath, I noticed a pretty good size scratch on his right shoulder.
I wrinkled my brow and asked him what happened.
"Who scratched you?" I ask.
He looks up at me and wrinkles his brow.
"You did," he responds.
I quickly review the day wondering if one of my nails had grazed him and couldn't recall a thing.
"Me?," I reply. "No, not me!"
Turning toward me again, he repeats a bit louder, "You."
"No, I did not scratch you," I protest.
"YOU!" he raises his voice getting a bit irritated with the line of questioning.
I recount the days' events again, thinking there just can't be any way I did this. I am not taking the fall.
"No way." I declare. "Wasn't me."
"No! Yooooooouuuu!" he shouts, thrusting his chin so far forward I think his neck will pop out of place. "Youuuuuuuuu! Youuuuuuu!" he chants like a tiny ghost.
Finally, he puts his tiny hand on my knee, juts his chin into my face, opens his eyes wide as if all this might help his feeble-minded mother understand him and says, "Luke scratched me. Luuuuuke! I said no-no Luke. Don't scratch. Don't hit. This hurts. Just hug."
The best part is that after bath, I was drying Jackson off when Eric came home from work and walked in to greet us. He noticed the scratch right away and asked about its culprit.
"You, daddy," Jackson responded.
"Me?!" Eric was in disbelief and before I could contribute to the dialogue he had thrown his hands up in the air and shouted, "No way, man! I didn't scratch you!"