When I woke up one day last week with a tender spot between my eyes, I couldn't think what it could possibly be.
One of the enormous stealth zits that have been plaguing me since my hormones started creaking back into gear a month or so ago?
Then I remembered.
The day before, I had tried to extract an economy-sized package of Number 5 diapers from a store display. The packages were surprisingly heavy and precariously balanced on the third shelf up. I must have made a false maneuver, for before I knew it three packages came down and hit me square in the face, knocking my glasses to the floor.
It was embarrassing. And it hurt, darn it.
Sleepless nights, labor pains, those I knew I'd signed up for. But as I rubbed my forehead in the middle of the supermarket aisle, it dawned on me that some of the ways we suffer for our children are entirely unexpected.