My mom-friends like to compare all the ways motherhood has changed our bodies, the same way little boys try to one-up each other with their scars. Check out these pregnancy stretch marks. Girl, that's nothin': My hair used to be straight and brown, but after having kids, it's kinky and black — and gray. Humph, try guess how much I had to spend on new shoes and pants after the pregnancy made my feet and hips bigger. And let's not even get into all the new underwires you need post-nursing!

But now I've got one mommyhood injury to beat 'em all: a busted shoulder.

Inflamed rotator cuff and tendinitis, to be exact.

I've come to learn that roughhousing with a 32-pound cannonball of a toddler can be bad for a mom's body. However, it can be good for bragging rights.

I am not fond of wrestling, but my son is. So I have been known to indulge him with those old classic games like "Run Headlong at Mom at Top Speed to Try to Knock Her Teeth Out" and "Pin Baby to the Ground and Tickle Him Until He Nearly Cries But Then Asks, 'Again?! Again?! Again!' "

Those games are a hoot. For him.

And they were funny to me, too, until I felt a suspicious twinge in my shoulder one recent Friday as we grappled and giggled, and I hoisted him up to the crib for his nap.

Less funny the next day as I popped Advils around the clock.

Not remotely funny when I awoke in a sweat at 5:30 on that Sunday morning feeling like a high-voltage cattle prod had been shoved into my right shoulder, and I had to drag myself to the ER, grimacing and gasping because even mere walking and breathing made the pain worse.

Two days and many ice packs and anti-inflammatory pills later, my arm hurt less but was still too sore and stiff to raise much past shoulder height. Even so, as it is for any mom, there was no way I could cop out on my duties; I had to bumble my way through work meetings, the kids' care, chores, errands, room-mom duties — with my right arm stuck in a sling.

At first I was humiliated and annoyed by the sling, and not just because of its negative fashion value. I'd always taken pride in trying to stay strong and fit and mastering the physical labor of caring for two really high-energy kids, so wearing the sling felt to me like carrying a giant neon sign screaming, "No Can Handle!"

But to my surprise, when my friends glimpsed the sling and asked for the story, I got not only the typical sympathy, but even some admiring looks and comments. More surprising, the admiring remarks were mostly from the guys.

"Wow, I didn't figure you as the type to get down and wrestle with your kid," one male friend said. Another guy kidded, "I guess Colt Brennan's job is safe now!" and seized the chance to tell me his own sports-injury stories. A couple of our sports writers recommended physicians who treat University of Hawai'i athletes. One guy friend gave me a light slap on the back (which hurt, but he meant well, I think).

Even my two kids got a kick out of playing "doctor" and kissing my arm. And the sling scored me extra clucks and pecks from the hubby.

But recently my doctor told me to wean myself off the sling to avoid "frozen shoulder," some horrid condition in which the joint stiffens from disuse.

So now I have a new problem: Without the sling, I no longer have a visible signal to other people that I'm injured. A shoulder injury isn't obvious the way a broken leg is.

So now instead of looking like an injured hero, I just look like a lazy jerk. People look at me funny when I ask them to grab things from shelves for me, and explaining the injury just sounds desperate.

A few days ago, when the grocery store cashier routinely asked if I wanted carryout service, I sheepishly answered yes, then felt even worse when a woman clerk smaller than me showed up to help. I tried explaining that my injury was the reason I couldn't lift the bags; she eyed my shoulder suspiciously with a look that read, "Yeah, suuure."

I think I liked it better back when I wore the sling. The arm hurt like heck then, but at least I didn't have to take the second blow to the ego.

Reach Esme Infante Nii at enii@honoluluadvertiser.com.