Last night, I experienced a parental rite of passage — I stepped, HARD, on one of Miles’s toys for the first time. And let me tell you, I almost wish it had been a nail instead. I bellowed immediately on realizing my folly, limping over to the dinner table muttering every expletive one could think of under my breath as I cursed both the small, wooden object and my own gross negligence.
Jaclyn was, of course, completely supportive. “What happened?” she asked.
“I STEPPED ON THIS #@^%#&$@&^%&#*%&#@ WOODEN PIECE OF &@#$%*^#@*^&!” was my measured reply as I clutched my foot.
“Oh, well I’ve done that before,” Jaclyn replied dismissively, which was absolutely the most helpful thing she could have possibly said.
I did my best to avoid placing pressure on my foot for the rest of the evening but knew full-well that as bad as it felt last night, it would ONLY feel worse this morning. And this fear was confirmed as I stepped out of bed and applied even light pressure to my foot. The area is sporting a handsome bruise now. I didn’t even know what it took to bruise the BOTTOM of your foot…a mystery I now wish I had never cracked.
I spent a lot of my late teens training myself to stop hunching and looking at the ground all the time. All that work was for naught.