…my children blisters. I hate blisters.

You know, it actually started off as a great little afternoon jaunt.

It was yesterday afternoon, about 4:30, I was done working for the day, and I spent about half an hour on the back deck with Girl1 and Girl2. We were mostly freezing warts off Girl1 (aka wart farmer’s) feet with the ineffective and totally useless Freeze Away by Dr. Scholls, but hey…there was a togetherness, ya know?

So, because the weather was so lovely I decided we should go for a little walk. We decided to head over to M&Ms for some chicken breasts, etc. (GODHELPME the nanaimo bars were on sale! But I resisted.) Girl2 came out wearing flip-flops, and I questioned her choice of footwear, doubting she’d make it all the way there. She agreed, and went inside to change into these:

the blister-makers

Now, honestly, I should have balked, but for some reason, I didn’t.

We stopped at the playground on the way there, and the girls frolicked on the monkey bars for about half an hour before I decided it was time to hurry them along. We hadn’t made it three minutes further when Girl2 announces she has to go pee. Very badly.

ARGH.

We manage to make it to the gas station where I feel obliged to buy a Gatorade to compensate for using their bathroom. But I emerge optimistic. The emergency has been successfully handled. We make it the rest of the way…with me wishing I had a cattle prod to herd them out of every bus shelter along the way, out from bushes, off of fences…

But you’ve walked places with kids before, you know what I’m talking about.

We get our chicken breasts, plus some insta-grilled cheese sandwiches and somehow I get talked into peach juice crystals (of all the weird things to sell at M&M Meat Shops…but anyway). We had barely even set foot outside the store when Girl2 is down on her haunches, poking at her feet. I take a closer look, and she’s got not one, not two but three. THREE! Blisters. ON. EACH. FOOT.

I decide she will have to walk home barefoot, since I have a ten-pound bag of (frozen) meat in each hand and clearly cannot also hoist her 40 pound bulk. That lasts as far as the crosswalk, which I carry her over. Back go the shoes.

…hobble, hobble, limp, limp…

I cant’ bear it. I tell her to take off her shoes again and walk along the edges of the lawns, instead of on the sidewalk. But then — GET THIS — the grass-THE GRASS! was “sharp” and hurt her feet too much. She lagged well behind the pace that I necessarily set (due to the melting meat in the shopping bags) and kept trying to put her shoes back on, only to hobble along for a few more painful steps before abandoning them again.

A lightning flash of genius, and out comes the receipt from the bag. I tear it up in six pieces, and one goes on each sore spot and voilà! instant bandages. (Oh, the times you wish you had decided to carry your purse after all.)

That lasted about 20 metres. Out of paper, I briefly considered scrounging an old piece of cardboard litter on the ground, but then resorted instead to large dandelion leaves. (Funny how the $10 bill in my pocket never entered the running at all!)

Another 20 metres (and greenish feet).

Back to the gas station. I run in for a stack of paper napkins from the coffee counter — I figure the Gatorade I bought on our way out will cover this — and Girl2’s feet are now wrapped in brown paper, 100% post-consumer recycled napkins. But she can walk!

At least 50 metres this time.

But now we’re finally at the school, and from here on in it’s a cut through the fields and directly back home. Girl2 will just have to suck it up and brave the sharp grass. I put her shoes in my bags and beeline it for home and the safety of the freezer.

And THAT’S why I hate blisters!