I slammed my toe in my office door.
I won't go into the gory details but it's bad. And here I thought I was on the mend after my thumb-in-the-car-door incident last week.
This time Chuck didn't rough anything up. He just handed me a box of bandaids. Meanwhile, Junior's been following my toe around like a stalker.
"What's that? What's on toe, Mommy? You have a boo boo? Can I have bandaid? Can I touch bandaid? Do I have boo boo? You have feet? Do I have feet? Are my feet big? Are Dadda's feet big? Are you big? Am I boy? Are you girl? Is Dadda man? Is Dadda big man? Does Dadda have big wiener?"
Is it too late to change my mind about the whole wiener thing? Maybe pick something more arcane for when we're in public? Or should I go around shouting, "Yes! Yes! It's huuuuuuuuuge! I'm the luckiest girl aliiiiiiiive!"
Parenthood is so not what I expected.
About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.