Toenails

This past Sunday I painted my toenails. You might ask why I think this is significant; well, I will explain…

It all started 5 months ago, December 16th to be exact. I was beginning my 9th month of pregnancy and feeling rather large and unattractive. Dave was gone at some meetings and I was bored so I decided to paint my toenails. I wanted to draw attention away from my ever encroaching and swelling skin (my feet were starting to look like big balls of pink play dough that a small child had squeezed in their pudgy little hand – gotta love pitting edema) , as well as have some fun toes when I went into labor. So, I went to the closet and pulled out the most seasonal/fun color I could find. Bright RED! After all, it was Christmas time. I sat myself down on the couch with the intent to lean down to my feet firmly planted on the floor to begin my masterpiece. It was here I ran into some problems. My baby bump was causing some issues. I could either hyper-ventilate, suck in, lean over my beach ball belly, and hold my breath in hopes I could get through as many toenails as possible, all the while turning beet red, with bulgy eyes, and popping veins, or find another equally awkward, yet more comfortable solution. I opted for door number two. I wriggle myself into another position in which one foot at a time was propped up on our couch within reaching distance of my outstretched arm. Thinking I of course would be so careful to not spill (since I never had before); I didn’t put any kind of protection down. Even though you probably don’t need me to explain what happened I will anyway; you guessed it – I spilled. I can’t remember what let to what but somehow I managed to drag my wet toenails across the carpet, and spill the open bottle on the couch and floor. Just call me Grace. It was AWFUL. I was horrified! I waddled my big self around the apartment gathering up all the supplies I could think of that could possibly help the problem. Memories of my little brother David were flashing through my brain all the while. Just to save face, I will tell you that it was another one of my sisters, not me, that was babysitting him when he was supposed to be in bed; instead he had crawled into the top of a closet, pulled out all my sisters’ fingernail polish, and proceeded to dump it all over the floor. My whole family tried for hours to revive the carpet, but it was no use. We ended up having to replace the entire bedroom floor.
I was just imagining how fun it was going to have a blazing red stain on our couch that wasn’t even a year old, and Wymount telling us we had to replace all the carpet in the apartment even though it was hideous Berber that has been there since the pioneers reached the Salt Lake valley. With this thought in mind I worked fast and furiously to reverse the damage. 45 minutes later Dave walked through the door to find me sobbing and scrubbing a floor cleaner/fingernail polish remover saturated floor and couch.
Dave gently pulled me away from the wreckage, told me it was okay, and proceeded to finish the job. When he was done, he sat me down, and carefully and lovingly painted my toenails for me. It was amazing that after that kind gesture it didn’t really matter what the couch and floor looked like. Those things were no longer important
One short week later, I entered Utah Valley Regional Medical Center and delivered the most perfect baby boy. If I wasn’t on the labor and delivery floor, they would have though I was a life-flight victim with no chance of survival, BUT my toes still looked beautiful.
This finally brings me to where I am today. Since that bittersweet experience, I hadn’t touched my toes. Eventually the bright red polish chipped away, but I was slightly traumatized and nervous about pulling out any sort of super-staining product. However, on Sunday I built up the courage to paint my toenails “Cranberry”. I know it’s silly, but it is so fun for me to look down at my toes and think to myself that they look rather nice! It’s just one of many small things that make life worth living. You gotta find joy in the small stuff.