The other day, the stud hubs came home from work, (normal), walked through the door, (normal), saw me peeking out from the bedroom, (sometimes normal), sitting with one leg stretched towards the light, (occasionally normal), with a pair of tweezers, (maybe normal), and blood all over my foot, (uhhhhh).
A few days earlier I had knocked over my glass of iced tea. Broken glass and sticky sugary liquid all over the wood floor.
I'm 23 years old and I need a plastic sippy cup.
Fast forward to me and my foot, somehow managing to find the last shard of glass that made it's magical pilgrimage to the Land of Right-Before-Our-Bedroom-Door.
I had flashbacks of my Dad helping me pull out things I had stepped on throughout my life: a tack, itchy bark dust, splinters of a broken lightbulb, remnants of what once had been a picture frame...
Now it's Daniel's turn. He has his hands full being married to me.
Nothing better than a man you love, kissing your boo-boos and handing you a Transformers Band-Aid.