Two years ago, a week before I was to host my first Thanksgiving dinner, I broke the little toe on my left foot. When I say broke, I mean that it was hanging, loose and limp, like a rotten berry ready to drop off a branch. Yeah. It was ugly. I actually had to go to the ER (for a broken toe!) and call my saintly little brother away from some hugely important football game he was watching to drive me home from the ER. I was on crutches. It was ridiculous.
Today, after a lovely dinner with kiddos and friends at another Mama's house, I slammed the same toe into one of her sturdy oak kitchen chairs. And yes, I broke it. Again.
Fortunately, this time it doesn't look quite so prepped for amputation as it did two years ago. So I was able to leave my little brother in peace.
Like any hardcore Mama, I put a belt between my teeth, taped the sucker myself and drove my kiddo home for bedtime. I'll even admit to some small sense of pride in being able to do so, though it does kind of hurt. (Two glasses of wine have taken the edge off.)
Nevertheless, both experiences have reminded me how important the little things are. This tiny, seemingly vestigial digit is, apparently, quite useful. Almost integral, some might say, to important daily activities like walking or lifting a little one out of the bath.
So I sit here typing, humbled at the power of my little toe and all of the other tiny things that shape my life: little people, little displays of love and the tiny rays of hope that always seem to peek through even the most menacing of clouds. I accept this broken toe as a reminder from the universe not to take the smallest things for granted.
Little toe, get well soon. Bath time needs you. And so does yoga class. I promise you a spa pedicure when you're well. So hurry up and heal, little guy.