Most people who see me day to day know something's up–I've been wearing a very noticeable black brace for four months now. It's my wrist. My right wrist. Can't open jars of peanut butter. Can't turn on bath water. Can't zip up three-year-old's pants. Can't grate cheese. Can't get any outfit to look good with that black brace. (Not even a black outfit.) What's a mama to do?
Just do what the doctor says, I guess. Surgery is in my near future.
I recently expained the impending procedure to Jack. Incisions, needles, bone scraping, fragment packing, stitches. Sounds a bit horrifying.
Jack: "So, what do our bodies look like on the inside, anyway?"
Me: "Well, there's blood, and veins, and organs, and bones… I guess it's kinda scary in there."
"It's like, we're so pretty on the outside and then we're so yucky on the inside."
"Yeah. Pretty much."
"I'm so happy we're not yucky on the outside too."