There was a little foot poised perfectly in midair in front of my face. "I want purple!" the voice above me commanded.
As I bent over, assuring my spinal demise, I gently held the foot in one hand, squinted, and tried to steady the other, the better to apply polish with. Cursing is done silently, mentally, with abandon.
I have no one to blame but myself, that she is addicted to the shot of color on her toes. There was a brief respite, when tights were fabulous, but they've fallen out of favor in the wee one's court. It's so much easier to shuck off shoes and socks than deal with tights, afterall.
Try grabbing a pea and painting a bullseye on it, and you will know what I'm dealing with here.
I paint one or two toes, and present them for final approval before proceeding. "Well? What do you think? Pretty?"
I feel a pat on my head as she replies, "Yes, my dahrling. Pretty."
As I look up at her, I can't help but wonder where she got her Zsa Zsa.
"You are the Princess of the House," she announces, "and I am the Princess of the World."