It happened right after we got home from church--you know, that miserable half hour when everyone is starving, tired, grouchy, and scrambling to change into sweats.
I stubbed it on a chair. It hurt like the dickens, and it was pointing in a very unnatural direction. In the middle of the post-church chaos, I announced I broke my toe, with a crack shoved it back in a more natural direction, took two Advil, and went to sleep. There's nothing a good nap won't take care of, right? Well, not this time. It was still broken when I woke up. Darn it.
So Greg got to spend his Father's Day tending the kids while I napped. And then tending the kids more while I went to the clinic.
[I have to admit that I felt pretty lame at the Park City Clinic with a broken toe that I stubbed on a piece of furniture. It seemed more appropriate to have a cool mountain biking injury or something. But I felt better when I learned that the guy next to me was a serious mountaineer, just having survived unscathed quite the three-week ordeal in the Cascades, only to come home, fall off a chair and cut his ear.]
So Greg got to spend his Father's Day...being a father.
For his pains, he got the Honduras Lonely Planet, a book about the Mayans, and an X-wing starfighter, which David promptly adopted as his own.
The problem with Greg is that he's just so great. I haven't exactly been at my finest since Mary was born, and he has taken on more than his fair share of familial duties. He helps with (or does solo) everything. This will make it that much more difficult when he leaves...
Have I ever mentioned that I love that man? All six foot five inches.
As for my toe, so much for morning walks on the Millennium Trail and evening hikes in the mountains.
Darn it.
Happy Father's Day, Greg.
