Nora is very concerned about my toes. On the way home yesterday she told me, “Mom, when we get home I need to check your toes because I think there’s something wrong with them.”
She thinks the crusty ridges of dry skin on the underside of my toes are injuries. She discovered them over the weekend and can’t stop thinking about them.
Also, she likes to point to the dry skin patches on my elbows and say, “What happened?” I tell her these things happen to your body when you’re a grown-up. She looks grave.
This puts me in mind of when I was a kid and was horrified by my grandma’s goiter. And the yellow toes nails of a family friend. And the woman we met camping who had about a dozen freakishly long, dark hairs on each forearm. What bugged me the most about these imperfections was how non-chalant these grown-ups seemed about their defects. These were not things to be taken in stride, in my opinion. Something should be done.
Now I’m the grown-up who doesn’t know when she ought to get a pedi.
When Nora complains about the long process of growing up, I’ll remind her, the sooner you grow up, the sooner you’ll be gross like me.