YOUR BIG TOE

Dear Spike:

It was bound to happen.

What, with all this, bull-ridin', half-pipe jumpin' and professional soccer playin' you've been talking about lately, it was clear you weren't going to be leaving this home without a few bumps and bruises to show for it.

But we didn't really want those bumps and bruises to come so soon.

I was in my office, up north, when I got the call from your mother.

"Calm down" she told me.

"I am calm," I said. "Why wouldn't I be calm?"

"Because of what I'm going to tell you — which is why I said you need to calm down."

"But..."

"Promise!"

"Promise what?"

"That you'll be calm."

"Um... OK."

You were exploring our basement — a veritable death trap, to be certain — when you came upon my weight set. Somehow you wrestled one of the 10-pound barbell weights off the rack.

It fell on your foot, crushing your big toe.

For the record, I'd like to point out that I took the news rather well. And I'd like to think that I would have done so regardless of whether or not your mother first made me pinky swear to stay calm.

She, for the record, was doing an admirable job of holding it all together. And she did everything right to keep you calm and get you the help you needed.

She (quite wrongly) blamed herself. (This is definitely more my fault than hers — and you get some blame, too, for touching things you shouldn't be touching). But in any case, your mom didn't dwell on any of that until well after I'd arrived (two hours later) to find you both sitting calmly in an examination room, waiting to look at the X-rays.

There were dark circles under your eyes and you chin was trembling, but you did your best to wear a brave face.

"I tried to hold it up, but it was too heavy for me," you explained.

The doctor came in and looked at the pictures. There was a distinct line down the middle of the distal phalanx of your hallux.

Or, in other words: the little piggy that went to market had a boo-boo.

It could have been a lot worse. Still, the doctor sentenced you to three weeks in a hard boot. Looks like I'll only be coaching a bunch of other parents' soccer players for a while. Sorry kid, but those are the breaks...

... um ...

... no pun intended, really.

As you know, I try really hard to find lessons in all of life's little adventures. Sometimes, I'm sure, I try too hard.

So I won't serve up some platitude for you to consider. Not today. You've got enough to worry about right now.

So I'll just say this: You'll be better soon. I promise.

Love,

dad