oh, i, i just died in your arms tonight. or maybe you died in mine thanks to the potential for smothering. hugs?

"Your arm is as flat as a pancake!" I declared as the nurse gently peeled away layers of cotton and bandages from my son's left arm earlier today. "It looks like you got steam rolled in some kind of crazy cartoon world!"

My son broke both bones in his forearm two weeks ago, the result of an unfortunate and quite volatile mating dance between his scooter and an in-ground sprinkler head. He's not entirely clear how it happened. The events leading to the attack have been slowly trickling back into his memory like post-battle field flashbacks. What is his major malfunction? Coordination, apparently.

As you can imagine, we've spent a tremendous amount of time these past 14 days talking about his arm and arms in general, and as we waited for the nurse to see if they had glow in the dark casting material (thank goodness, no) we marveled at how compressed his arm had become after this initial healing time in the splint.

Once he was casted - all the way to his armpit in bright blue battle armor - we waited in the exam room for the doctor to let us know the results of the day's second round of x-rays. To bide the time, my son decided to play junior orthopedic specialist and began examining my arm. After a few moments of careful inspection that involved putting me through a variety of range of motion exercises, he began poking my upper arm, then started singing my diagnoses.

In all honesty, it's not a good one.

"Oh, gigolo, hello! Hello, hello gigolo! Hello, gigolo, hello!" he loudly crooned as his fingers sunk deeper into what delicate ladies might refer to as the mud flaps on my apparently doughy upper arms.

"Hello, gigolo, hello! Gigolo, hello!"

When they're not busy caring for my family and doing what they're designed to do, which is to hoist delicious fistfuls of microwave popcorn (and ice cream and macaroni and cheese and oh, look! Snickers!) to my mouth while lifting nothing heavier than the television remote, they're providing paid companionship to lonely ladies. Considering the amount of money I need to come up with to cover the medical expenses we're incurring thanks to my son's broken arm, it's probably a good thing my appendages have taken on a side gig. I just hope they're clear they need to charge more for SOME of those jobs. And, hey arms, no kinky stuff!

I probably should have been (wait for it...) up in arms (totally hilarious, right?) over his diagnosis, but I was afraid waving these flappers of mine around haphazardly could have knocked the kid off the exam table, and I didn't want to take the risk of having him break his other arm.

"I think you mean 'Hello, jiggly!'" I corrected him. "I also think I'd like to know how you know the word 'gigolo.'"

But before I find that out, I'm wondering if I should sue him for malpractice.

Oh, but the cuteness! Could you just die?! And could you die from flabby arms?