Have you ever stubbed your toe? That’s a dumb question. Everyone has stubbed their toe and screamed out “Holy St. Polycarp” to protect their children’s virgin ears.
Well, I more than stubbed it this time. I fell down some stairs and my big toe broke my fall. I was holding Sacha at the time, so the toe took one for the team, and let me tell you, there were more explicit words out of my mouth than “Fiddle dee dee.”
The pain was outrageous and immediately called for the comfort of a good friend, Mr. Advil Liquigel (bearing in mind that one cannot have an epidural for such injuries). It throbbed all night, and I was almost convinced that I had broken it. This morning it throbbed even more, and the bruising began. Small and pink at first, it spread like leprosy on my toe. Sacha, obviously intrigued by the strange formations taking hold on my toe, began poking it. Initially, I pretended it hurt, just to get a rise out of him. Then he stepped on it. I howled like a cat in heat, to which he giggled with glee and stomped on it even harder. Oh sweet merciful poptarts! He roared with laughter. I bit my lip and attempted to extricated him from my toe’s immediate environment, but it was now a game. A horrible masochistic game that only a dutiful and wretchedly loving mother would tolerate.
Until daddy got off the can and saved me from my firstborn.
(I tried to improve my podiatric appearance with pink polish, but nothing can make that big ugly toe look as pretty as it’s sisters.)