The Trap

There's a cheese grader on the floor. It's a bit hard to see underneath the Mt. Vasuvious of stuffed animals but you might catch a glimpse of the shiny metal if you look just right. But of course you have to actually be looking for it. If you're not then you just see the toy salad that my children have made in our daily routine of freaking destroying the house. The walls are still standing, but just barely. The toy salad is topped with the Parmesan of the toy/crap world--puzzle pieces. Or are they the croutons?

This mound lies in the middle of the hallway, right at the bottom of the stairs. To the casual observer this placement may look arbitrary and almost haphazard. The kind of mound that any destructive 4 year old and 3 year old toadie would make. But I know my children so I should have been aware that this was some sort of Vietcong trap. I should have known.

I had to step over the pile for the 100th time, each time asking the minions to please pick your shit up. Each time they said ok then promptly ignored my request. Eventually, I lost my patience and my temper. This was their plan all along. Clever. My children are very clever.

Tired of them ignoring me, I thought that I would give them a show of force. Prove who the alpha dog still in in this beotch. I walked to the pile and kicked it, I kicked it hard. The plan was to send the arms and legs of destroyed toys across the room and smack sickeningly against the opposite wall. Then slowly they would stick and slide down while making a creepy sliding noise. The plan sounded very good in my head.

But I wasn't wearing any shoes. Or socks. Just my bare feet.

The top of my big toe hit directly on the cheese grader. An interesting fact: a cheese grader can also be known as a skin grader, although unless you are a 12th century dungeon master, you would never know it.

I am now missing the top of that toe. I have troll feet already, good for stomping at fires on my front porch and scaring small children that wander underneath any bridges. Now they have the addition of authentic "battle damage". All I'm missing is a spiky club.

What was meant as a show of force had ended up with me staggering around on one leg while trying not to get little drops of blood on the floor, blood that only I would have to freaking clean up. That's what we call in the business of parenting as "adding insult to injury." The stuffed animals didn't even fly that far and I'm also pretty sure that the cheese grader scuffed my hardwood floor to.

The minions either thought I was being funny or they were laughing because they have learned how diabolical they can be.

Well played children. Well played indeed.