My ten-year old still has a cast on his broken forearm. He’s doing well with it, but apparently, it feels better when it’s elevated.

Yesterday at church, he had the cast resting on the top of his head during the service when he suddenly decided to stretch. Both arms went straight up and behind him as he arched his back.

Glancing over, I noticed that the cast was heading straight for the head of the lady sitting behind us. She was an older woman, dressed very nicely with a church hat and light blue dress.

I grabbed the cast before it could bonk her on the head.

“Wha-” my son said, turning to me.

“Sorry,” I whispered to the lady, ignoring him.

My son realized what had happened. Looking mortified, he turned to face her. “I’m so sorry,” he said.

She smiled. “That’s okay.”

“No, really,” he said. “I’m really sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she whispered back, her face serious. “If you get me, I can always bonk you.” She clenched a fist and pretended to slam him on the top of his head.

He smiled nervously, clearly not sure if she was joking, and turned back around.

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