Below the belt responsibilities

    Most every night the husband will turn to me hopefully, waggle his toes and ask, ‘Would you like to rub my feet?’

   Why would you even need to ask?  Who wouldn’t want to fondle those sweaty hooves?  Has that black ass toe nail fallen off yet?  No?  Well maybe if I put in a hearty effort the gooey remnant will peel off in my hand. 

    I don’t even like to touch my own feet.  Every spring I get a pedicure.  The next week’s activities are sometimes stalled as I gaze in wonder at the beauty of my smooth heels and brightly colored toenails.  I swear, every year, that this is it, THIS is the summer that I keep my feet looking nice.  Slowly, the polish will begin to slide up my toenails and my heels will return to looking like something you might use to cut diamonds.  

    Now that I have a kid, I’ve got ten more nails to worry about.  For some reason, evolution has decreed that tiny newborns require claw like talons.  My little guy came out of the womb with hands like a skeksi.  The prospect of using nail cutters on the tiny appendages is terrifying.  Any mother will tell you, it’s not a matter of if you will cut your delicate babes fingers.  It’s a matter of when.  I would liken the task to using an industrial paper cutter to slice off a feather on a butterfly’s wing. 

    You have to do it so you do.  I don’t have to rub the husband’s feet but sometimes I do that as well.  What can I say?  Sometimes you do gross ass stuff in the name of love.