Poke in the Foot

I hadn't called my mother in a couple of days because I had some idea I would call her in the middle of the funeral service, or during the viewing, and that her cell phone would ring loudly, and that it would all be my fault for calling at such an inopportune time.

But yesterday I finally picked up the phone, reasoning that, by then, the funeral AND the burial would have been completed. And they had been. In fact they were on the long drive back.

My phone conversation was cut shourt, however, when Steve came in to tell me Nicholas had a splinter the size of a large crochet needle sticking into his foot. Which, in fact, he did. It took twenty minutes, tweezers, and a needle to remove the thing, not to mention a lot of crying and a lot of sweating - on my part.

Nick whined about his foot all night, refusing to get into the tub and asking me to "take it off his foot" before bed. I was positive he'd forget about it be morning. I was wrong. This morning he is still limping and complaining, leading me to question my splinter removing skills. Did I leave a bit of it in there? Could I have caused serious damage? Touched a nerve? Not disinfected enough?