Welcome to motherhood, I thought, backing away as Ben turned the soles of his feet toward my husband and me.

“No, I don’t need to touch them,” I answered calmly, then snapped, “Don’t you touch them either!”

“Why not?”

I did not say, “Because those are the most disgusting things I’ve ever set eyes on outside of that little dog we passed after it had been attacked by that big dog and the little dog’s eyeball was hanging out of its socket.”

I answered, “Because that looks contagious.” As in, I am repulsed that I’ve been walking the same floor as those infectious mushroom plantations. As in, you would not want to get whatever’s on your feet anywhere near your privates or scalp. “How long have they looked like that?”

“Mm, a couple of weeks?” Ben had no concept of time, but suffice it to say this meant his feet had looked leprous for a good long while.

“Why didn’t you say anything until now?”

“Mm, I don’t know.”

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