Tonight Daniel found a toothpick lying on the counter. He picked it up and turned it around a few times before tossing it across the room on the floor. I said, “Go pick it up. Never leave a toothpick on the floor.” He asked why not. I replied, “Don’t you remember the story about Nana and the toothpick?”
A few summers ago, Nana stepped on a toothpick. It was at the cabin. The cabin has barf-colored indoor/outdoor carpet that hides a lot of things, namely toothpicks. The toothpick broke on impact and neither Nana nor Papa could tell if part of it lodged in the wound. They went to the Hume infirmary. Then they went down the hill to urgent care. Then they went to the ER because urgent care could not do surgical type injuries. After numbing the foot and digging around for a toothpick fragment, they stitched the wound and prescribed pain meds. After all that excitement, they needed a vacation, so they went back up to the cabin.
I was telling Daniel this story and I got to the part about Nana having to go to the hospital and numbing her foot with a needle, when he quickly covered his ears and shuddered horrendously. Full-body, face-scrunching shudder. “No! Don’t tell me anymore!”
I don’t think he will throw toothpicks on the floor anymore.