I woke up this morning to my husband spitting on my foot. No, it’s not some weird family tradition, nor was he mad at me, and taking it out on my metatarsal bones. Apparently he was having some sort of dream in which he had to spit something out.
I guess I should just be glad that he had migrated to the end of the bed at some point during the night.
Actually, spit isn’t the worse thing that has attacked my feet during slumber; my delightful son Taylor’s response to an upset stomach isn’t to go to the bathroom and upchuck in the throne; it’s to come and tell me-combine that with bad timing and I have awoken to vomit covered tootsies twice.