There I sat. Innocently, calmly, quietly. Not bothering anyone. Completely unprepared for the colossal insult about to be shotgunned at me by the child I gave up caffeine for. The child that took 30 hours to move herself and her accessories out of my body (not that I felt most of it but that is not the point).
We were sitting together actually, on my recliner. A recliner meant really for one medium sized adult. Maybe one adult and a cat. But not one adult and a child. However, as I am so immensely generous of a person, I let both of my children cram their bodies into the chair with me, one at a time of course. I have to twist and torque into shapes the human body was not designed for but I love my little girls and they love to sit crammed in there with me and we do. Despite the unbelievable discomfort it causes me. And pain.
So Teena, she is an articulate child and a bright one at that. While she is often logic-and-filter - impaired, she is observant. As we were sitting on my recliner and her 200 degree body was caulked in with me, she made a comment.
Your feet look old, she chirped with a happy smile.
"What makes them look old?" I queried back to her, unsure and looking for clarity. After all, feet are not the typical age detector. (I believe this was a good indicator of things I need to learn as a parent. Exhibit A: for the love of body butter, know when to ask and when to let it go!)
"They look all brushie here", as she points to my heels which indeed have developed a sort of well, brushie, look to them.
I squawked, "what? what do you mean? what do you mean by brushie?"( trying to ignore the facts, I love me some good denial)
Clearly recognizing she needed to backtrack at the speed of a runaway train she wouldn't discuss it any further. But I was stuck. Stuck because I was both impressed by her descriptive skills and pissed off about my old looking brushie feet.
Too little too late, I let it go.