About two years ago, I tore some tendons in my left wrist. They weren’t torn all the way, fortunately, and I had surgery to wrap them up and strengthen them. The surgeon also shaved off some bone that he said was “in the way.”

The arm hasn’t worked right since. I can’t turn my hand palm up, and lifting things with it causes a surprising amount of pain.

I’ve done the best I could to be casual about the whole thing, and not let it interfere with my life, but I’ve had to let the kids know not to hang on that arm. In fact, “not that arm” has become an almost daily phrase. The kids do a lot of shoulder riding and swinging from my hands, and it’s easy for them to forget.

They call it my “bad arm.”

The other day, my youngest took a hard fall. I helped him to his feet and ran to get some ice and a paper towel. He was having a tough time not crying.

I wrapped the ice in the paper towel and handed it to him. “Here you go, kiddo. That looked like it really hurt.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You did a great job getting up again, though. Way to be strong!”

“But it hurts, Daddy!”

I gave him a hug. “I know, big guy. I wish there was something more I could do.”

“It hurts so bad, even worse than your arm!”

“No way.”

“Yuh-huh!”

I smiled. “Nothing hurts worse than my arm. It’s like, the worst.”

“This hurts worse. It hurts so bad. It hurts like, this much.” He held his hands as far apart as he could.

I gave him another hug. No way I could argue with that.