Tonight I played chauffeur for my husband and youngest son as we headed to dinner at Outback.  Apparently I was craving the ethnicity of Australian food.

At a stoplight I noticed a jagged nail on my middle finger, so I positioned my hand on the steering wheel, and with the other opened the console and reached for a nail file.  

Imagine my fingers splayed across the leather rim, three fingers grasping the steering wheel but my middle finger–the one with the broken nail–extended.  I began filing quickly, knowing the light would turn before I was finished.

Stephen, gasping in horror, tsked me like an old mother hen:  "Moooo-ooom!  N i c e finger…." 

(My children cannot EVER handle me gesturing with my middle finger, they always "see" the worst.)

Tad:  "You're making a mess."

He didn't even see my middle finger!  All he noticed was the nail dust flying.

And me?  All I saw were a mother's hands, in dire need of a manicure. 

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