Today I’ll be writing about irony.  My husband got a scratch/scrape/invisible hurt of some kind on his arm and it was a whole big thing.  I needed to look at it; no under the light.  What should he put on it?  Did I think he should go to the doctor?  Finally our little one appointed herself his nurse, slathered on something (possibly toothpaste) and then crowned it with all the pomp and circumstance of a queen bestowing knighthood.  She even doled out one of her beloved Hello Kitty band-aids for such a serious occasion.  I will say it takes a secure man to sport little pink cats on his arm, and frankly I think he wore it well.  But did I think it was it healing?  Could I just look at it again?  Did it look better?  What did I think it was?  Should he spray something on it?  Meanwhile it turns out I have been running around on a broken shoulder with nary a peep for an entire week.  I am wearing a big black sling and can barely lift my arm.  Last night Burk sent me a text asking if I’d brought home the wolfies’ 80 pound bag of bison vittles.  Really?!  I told him between working for 12 hours, dressing and taking our daughter to and from school, seeing not one but two doctors, and hauling in three heavy bags of groceries one-handed I had not.  Sadly, the sarcasm was lost.  The orthopedist to take it easy for two months and I have to have a CT scan on Monday to make sure it does not require surgery.  (If you are reading this please pray it does not!)  American Olympic gold medal gymnast Shawn Johnson said, “Injury taught me I need to learn how to face challenges.”  I really like that quote.  Now my real challenge will be to get my husband over his grievous ailment and not relapse.  I would throw my arm dramatically over my eyes … but I can’t.