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.