Last night my wrist started hurting. It felt thick, like it needed to be popped (a very familiar sensation, from working four years on the slime line in a cannery), but I couldn’t get it to pop. I took some aspirin and went to bed and noticed it was still vaguely thick-feeling this morning. It didn’t hurt, though, until I scooped Young Indiana up and swept him around in the fashion I usually do. And my wrist went “HEY MOTHERF*CKER WATCH WHAT YOU’RE DOING!”
So now I have a wrist brace, because six months of baby-slinging has damaged me where decades of millions of words typed haven’t. Sheesh.