I’m pretty sure that stubbing your toe is a right of passage for every mother.
I’ve done it countless times.
It doesn’t matter whether I can see the toy or not; my toe is going to get stubbed. Sometimes it’s toes – plural; there’s nothing worse than a simultaneous toe stubbing incident. It takes all your will power not to scream every profanity you’ve ever heard at the top of your lungs. You hop around like a loon while your children laugh at you.
Today it was the train; that blinking train again. The same one that’s been covered in pee, juice, sick and goodness knows what else. That train has it in for me. That train has its life mapped out ahead of it and my constant sterilisation and moving of it aren’t going to stand in its way. It must have some kind of dialogue going on between itself and the boys. It must. It’s also got to have a little precognitive thing going on; how else would it know where I’m going to be before I even know it myself? I’m telling you, it’s telling the boys where to place it and at what time in order to trip me, cause me to fall or (as it did today) stub my toe.
I hate that train. I want it to stop singing it’s silly little alphabet song, stop ‘choo-chooing’ and stop consorting with my children in order to do me harm. That train is a bad influence. That train has to stop it. That train has to go.
(If only they didn’t love it so much …)