Bacon and Salami…Forgetaboutit

Here is Jack removing three—count them…1…2…3—splinters from Abbie’s hand a few nights ago.  Little Abbie, our strong, brave, courageous, stalwart little Abbie.  Such a trooper.  She has started coming to us, showing us her splinters and asking for them to be taken out.  Totally volunteers to be poked and pecked and pinched.  I sometimes think she purposely shimmies and slips around on our back deck or the look-out landing of the play structure in the backyard just to see how many shards of wood she can impale in her tender skin.

Then.

There.

Is.

Sadie.

Do you see that look?

(That look is, of course, enhanced by the eerie lighting and the Photoshop editing done to properly highlight the angst and sheer fear on her face.)

That look is because she also has one splinter on the bottom of her foot.  One tiny splinter.  It’s in a bad place, however, and needs to come out.  This photo was taken after we’d made two failed attempts to hold her down and remove the splinters.  No go.  And now she’s watching Abbie having her splinters removed and thinking to herself There is not enough bacon in the continental United States and adjacent countries of Mexico and Canada to make me lay my scaredy-cat self down on that bed and let you pluck out the splinter from the bottom of my foot.  And don’t even think about trying to bribe me with salami. I’m well aware of your carnivorous buy-offs and blackmails.  And, no, pancetta is out too.  Show me the slow-cooked, sauce-kissed baby back ribs, and I’ll take a brief moment to reconsider.  But then I’ll still say no.  May the ball of my left foot fester and become so infected that I have to be carried to and fro in a rickshaw for the rest of my life.

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