jennanddave.com

Last night while chasing Henry around the house (Because it just wouldn't be a bedtime routine if one of us didn't have to tackle our kid to the floor in order to brush his teeth.) I tripped on nothing, skidded across our bedroom floor, overturned our rug, ran my right foot over a nail that was sticking up, and landed with a loud crash over my vanity table. Henry, sympathetic little guy that he is, immediately did an about face and ran into his bedroom, happy to have successfully avoided having his teeth brushed for at least another few minutes, while I inspected the carnage on the bottom of my foot. Dave came upstairs and I told him he'd have to do Henry's teeth. Naturally, Dave's reaction was "But I did his teeth this morning!" so I held my foot up and said I had just sliced it open. Dave took one look then suggested I go downstairs and elevate my foot for a while, and that he would take care of putting Henry to bed. Since he's a Dr., I decided not to argue with him.

I Neosporined and bandaged the gash, and thought "Gee this doesn't hurt as much as I feel like it should," which of course ushered in the post-shock stage of a big boo-boo, which is pain, and lots of it. Then I got mad. I hobbled into the kitchen, grabbed my hammer, limped upstairs, then hammered the hell out of the nail, after inspecting it carefully for any remanants of my foot, of course.

Stupid nail. It knows who's boss now.