How I hate to type those words. Ranking right up there with blouses, toes, especially big ones, are not my favorite.
The one on my right foot is recovering from a severe blow caused by a certain snack drawer falling on it. The weight of uneaten lemon pudding cups and fig newton packets made it back-heavy when I pulled it out, and the whole thing came slamming down on me.
Oh my. The pain. And the memory.
Kieran came home from school and immediately had a solution…use a drill bit to release the building up pressure underneath the beautifully blue nail. He had experience with this once.
So did I.
When I was 9 or so, I had a similar incident, and my dad had that exact solution. Armed with one of the Little House on the Prairie books to read for distraction, I bravely took my seat on a chair in the living room as he assembled his drill.
My foot rested solidly on the ground and my mind focused steadfastly on my book until the shrill start up of the carefully tuned surgical tool. Immediately I shrieked and pulled my foot back. Assured that it would not hurt if I just held still and focused on reading, I tried again.
Somehow I couldn’t get past the noise of that drill. I really wanted to get past it. I wanted to cooperate and make it work. I just couldn’t.
My toe didn’t really hurt that badly, anyway. Like now. It really isn’t so bad. I think I will be ok.
I appreciated Kieran’s thoughtfulness and clarification that he just used the drill bit, not the entire drill.