True, true.
On my 8th birthday my Dad (pissed up) and my uncle (pissed up) egged me into doing a jump on my new bike.
Over the ramp, I careered down the garden on the front wheel, until I was stopped by a handy soft landing area.
A pile of old rusty corrugated iron.
The scar is no longer visible, but I still know it's there.
I despair of the mollycoddled environment in which my kids will grow up, I adore them, and I want no undue harm and suffering to come to them, but it'd be good if they can get a handle on cause and effect before they're 30.