I'm having a sleepover with Minna tonight. I read her two picture books. She learned to spell "skunk" and read me "Eddie and Little Skunk." Then the pinky toenail on my left foot fell off, and I decided it was high time I trimmed down the rest of my nails. As I did so, the conversation turned to toes and feet and... warts!
Minna has warts on her feet, her back, and lord knows where else.
I tried not to panic. I asked her in my best not-panicking voice if she knew how warts spread. She at least knows enough to not touch them too much with her fingers, because then people will see them. I begged her, in my slightly less not-panicking voice, not to kick me in her sleep or rub her back on me. She laughed at me and agreed, but all through our conversation about how you can't bring your pillow backpacking, how it would be easier to stand on one leg if you had claws, and how everyone needs to know not to compost the wrong way, I was fretting about warts.
Even now, watching her sleep like a good-natured, four foot tall baby gerbil, I can't quiet my apprehension. She's so sweet (and quite a cuddler), but my fear of warts has been a lifelong affliction, born of childhood trauma. Is it surmountable, or will this be another sleepless night in the Rotner/Uhr basement?
1 comment:
Keep up the good work.
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