Abraham,
Because your Grandma always wants to know, today you weighed 10 pounds and 2 ounces. We can only weigh you on Tuesdays, when you get the casts off. You are a trooper about this very intrusive process. You let it be known that you are not that fond of it, and then you settle down and suck on your Mom's finger furiously, like a chain smoker on coffee break.
Today in the casting room with you there was a boy named Thomas who had fallen off his couch over the weekend while on some small adventure. He broke his elbow. He and his Dad thought they were coming for a cast and got scheduled for surgery instead. Tonight the orthopedic doctor was going to tack part of the broken bone back in place. Thomas is three and didn't seem to register this sudden change. Thomas's Dad felt it. I felt it, too. I would guess every parent in the world felt it.
Bones are brittle and they break. Hearts, they shatter. I cannot truly imagine the phone call back home to Thomas's Mom. It's bad enough to hear it, but it's quite another to say it. You are giving voice to your greatest fears, the dangers you cannot foresee and forestall, the fact that superhuman love does not give you superhuman powers, only makes you superhumanly frail.
Be well Thomas.
Pa-