“What’s this part called?” My five year old, Zoe, pats the underside of my upper arm.
“I don’t remember.” I’m sure I could if I tried hard enough, but I’m typing up a new story. My creative juices are flowing and I don’t want to stop and use the logical side of my brain right now.
Zoe stares at it and pats it a little more. The underside of my arm wiggles and jiggles.
“Is it called the ‘hang-down’?” Zoe asks with a raise of her eyebrows.
I stop typing for a moment and give her my “that’s enough questions for now” stare.
“It should be called that,” she continues, undeterred. “Cause it does hang down, ya know.” Then she proceeds to swing it back and forth like a pendelum.
“Yes, dear, I know it hangs down.” I remove her hand. “But it’s not called the ‘hang down’.”
I breathe deeply and think hard. “Triceps. Yep. That’s the name of that muscle.”
Zoe’s eyes widen. “Are you sure?” She shakes her head in disbelief. Then she reaches up and pats my arm again. “That’s a muscle?”
Words can cut deep, man.
They cut deep.
I hope walmart has some handweights on sale. . .