It happened suddenly.
Incidental contact; my foot brushed against the couch.
Unexpected motion.
Something nearly imperceptible soaring through the pre-dawn darkness illuminated only by the blue glow of a cool-mist humidifier, then skittering across the hardwood floor.
Though my instinct was to investigate immediately, I held a swaddled newborn baby in my arms.
Laying him down with anything less than a full stomach risked piercing the morning silence with his cry and possibly waking both my wife and two-year-old daughter.
Wrestling with the issue, the lure of curiosity won.
My prize was horror.
Horror at uncovering the source: my toenail had flown across the room.
How?
I’ve had many toenails fly across the room before but this was the first to happen without the assistance of nail clippers and some purposeful intent.
Stunned, I hobbled gingerly back towards the couch to inspect my feet. I wasn’t in pain but it seems impractical to walk normally when you suspect that parts of your feet are falling off, so I hobbled.
Judging by the nail’s size, It could only be from a big toe, but could it really be mine?
Perhaps some mishap had gotten a long-ago-clipped nail embedded into the fabric of the couch or my sweatpants catapulting it back into my life when I sat cross-legged on the couch to feed my son.
I inspected my left big-toe toenail and felt a splintered edge. A piece of nail was missing.
A big piece. Torn from the center leaving a jagged crescent hook on the outside edge and exposing a patch of tender, vulnerable flesh below.
None of the other toenails were disturbed, at least not physically.
It seemed as if the biggest little piggy had been chosen to send a message to the others and was assaulted, alone, most likely while making his way to the market.
I’d been meaning to cut my toenails for some time but with a newborn son, two-year-old daughter, wife recovering from birth, new home repair issues, and sandal season still at least a month away, it’s importance had slipped a bit.
Of course, I’ve heard the expression that our bodies fall apart as we age but until now I imagined that to be hyperbole or a metaphor for sagging skin and aching knees.
Now I understood it to be an understatement of the actual catapulting of parts of my anatomy onto my recently refinished hardwood floor.
Perhaps the most glaring thing about having kids while older (40 with a newborn) is the contrast between their rapid development and my sluggish deterioration.
It’s bad enough that when my kids draw family pictures in school the crayon they’ll grab for me is grey but now they’ll draw me with a bandage on my toe as well. Hobbled old Dad with his jagged little toes.
Newborn photographers love taking pictures of parents cradling their baby’s feet. It’s meant to highlight just how small the precious baby is but to me it shows the glaring contrast between youth and age. Brittleness vs vitality.
My children need their fingernails clipped every 30 minutes or they start tearing the flesh from their own faces. They’re innocent but deadly like Edward Scissorhands twirling in the snow.
I, too, once had indestructible nails. I spent my early years prying open lids with reckless abandon.
In our science class’ mineral scratch test, I eviscerated the Gypsum. It never stood a chance.
In high school, a beautiful girl fawned over my nails, though said I needed to work on my cuticles. I said “I think you’re pretty cuticle,” and the next day her boyfriend gave me a nasty look while passing me in the hall.
Now, just twenty-five short years later, the mere act of sitting on a sofa splinters my mightiest toe’s nail and sends it’s shrapnel spinning across the room.
The same toe that may someday be tagged to make sure it’s my body in the casket my family mourns and not some other unfortunate soul.
I took my toenail for granted and it found it’s own way out. It wasn’t much of an inconvenience but future body parts may not be so generous in their insubordination.
There’s probably a lesson in there, but my priority list is full for now so I’ll kick that can a little further down the road (with the side of my foot). I never much cared for sandals anyways.
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