A Pes of Wood

So as I was looking at my unorganized dresser today, I glanced at my shadow box full of memorable items, that sits and collects dust amidst the chaos. One item that always makes me smile when I see is my little jar labeled: pes of wood. This jar is symbolic of many things. I smile because looking at the spelling on the jar, I was obviously a cute innocent 6 year old. It also makes me smile because of the story behind it.
If anyone knows my dad, they know that he is a by the rule guy. He does not like to push the limits on anything. This comes naturally to him, but his profession has not helped. Maybe thats why he is good at what he does. Spending most his days as a Pediatrician, he has seen the in's and out's of what can go wrong. If there was anything that could possibly cause a serious injury, we could not have it at our house i.e. trampolines, four wheelers, boats, motorcycles, etc. He had seen too many head traumas and broken bones to let us take the risk. Plus how could he not implement what he encouraged parents to do without using it on his own kids. We were the first to have to be in car seats, and the first to have to wear bike helmets. I thought my life was over when I had to have this big ball around my head. Me and my sisters did what we could to sneak around and not obey his rules, but every time we did one of us got hurt. My dad's advice was always right! So this jar of wood is in remembrance of a time I disobeyed the rules.
I was playing on my ultra cool solid wood playhouse in our back yard one winter afternoon with my friend Lauren. There was about a foot of snow on the floor of the playhouse so you could not see the bottom. For some reason, Lauren dared me to take my shoes off. I remembered my dad's rule of "no taking your shoes off outside" and knew I should not disobey, but I rebelled and did anyway. Probably sheer out of defiance plus I was being dared. As I lowered my foot into the snow I suddenly felt a sharp shooting pain go up my foot. I knew right away I was in trouble. I was probably more afraid that I had disobeyed rule #1051 then about what just went into my foot. As I screamed for help, my mom brought me inside and tried to find what had gone into my foot. Though she searched long and hard she had not luck. After some consultation with my dad from the office, I had to soak my foot in hot water until he got home. This was probably three to four hours. Once he got home he tried to remove the object but could not find anything. Six months later, after my foot was twice it's size due to inflammation, I ended up having to sit through an exploratory plantar take down by a general surgeon to remove the piece of wood that had shot through my foot, just below the big toe, and floated down to about midpoint. My dad tried to tell me the story of the three little pigs, but this did not help. It only made me angry that he thought this would calm me down. Where was the anesthesia? Needless to say, I learned my lesson young about disobedience. And if I forget, I have a reminder that sits on my dresser!