The Tip of My Toe

While making dinner last night I gave my daughter her usual sippy cup of milk. She took a big swig, then threw it down with all of her toddler might. Unfortunately, she has an uncanny aim and the heavy, all plastic projectile landed full force right on the tip of my toe. In my rush to grab my throbbing toe, I dropped an entire gallon of milk on the floor and then began hopping in order to somehow quell the pain. While the milk ran all over the cool tan tiles of my kitchen floor I began speaking in tongues, saying anything that would keep inappropriate words from the ears of a stunned toddler.

M. mutely stood watching me, clutching the security t-shirt du jour. The shirt became the first item sacrificed to the aftermath of the milk Molotov cocktail. I hobbled to grab two dirty bath towels and threw them over the mess while M.’s lower lip trembled. Once the mess was contained and I knew my toe was not bleeding I sat on the floor and looked at little M.

“Please do not throw your sippy cup. It might hurt someone.” I said to her as she turned and sat in my lap.

“Uh oh.” M. said as she plopped down.

“Uh oh is right.” I pointed to my toe and said “Owie.”

“MMMAAAH!” M. gave me a big kiss.

Sometimes it isn’t the injury but how you handle the aftermath that matters. That said, I think I’m going to get rid of that darn sippy cup.