Call It What You Want...

The wicked high chair strikes again!

Early in Mark's life, his ever-graceful mommy tripped and stubbed her left little toe on the high chair. Still learning it was there, she was probably justified in being a bit clumsy but also a little careless. Five months later you would think she'd know where the durn thing was. But no.

Now the chair is at the table instead of in the corner. So it was my right toe this time. I now have a very lovely black stripe down the middle of my (already) misshapen little toe. The toe is useless anyway; it doesn't touch the floor and does nothing to help my balance. It and its corresponding left toe are little more than vestigal on my feet, thanks to their hammertoe-ness. (It didn't work to press them down to the floor as flat as I could, which I did with all my toes when the Dunce had his series of toe surgeries.) I have to stretch shoes on the sides where those toes reside to make room. The kind podiatrist suggested a few things to try before surgery... which I am glad to do before surgery. If they were to do surgery, I would just as soon have them removed as have them straightened, given my tendency to hit them on things... like high chairs.

Mom broke a toe on my high chair, so the story goes. Am I getting my just desserts?

Mom also broke her toe on a time machine. I like that story better.

Editor's note: The swelling has mostly gone down, the bruising has lessened, and walking is not excruciating pain any longer. I may survive this go-'round with the high chair. Stay tuned...