"Oh my God, was that your foot?" I asked the first time my husband pinched me with his toes. He was in the backseat of a car we were both riding in one summer, and he'd propped his legs up in the space between the two front seats. Something had just pinched me awfully hard, but it didn't seem possible for toes to pinch so impressively.
He pinched me again, with his toes.
I'd never really noticed his toes before, but looking at them, they were kind of long and, apparently, unusually agile.
Through the years, he's pinched me hundreds of times with his feet. He can retrieve the remote control with his toes, pick up his dirty socks and toss them in the hamper, quite like a chimpanzee.
The weekend before we went to the doctor to find out the sex of our baby, he'd gotten me really good. I'd exclaimed, "I hope our child doesn't have your feet!"
The Wednesday we went to the doctor's office, the ultrasound technician laughed at us and asked, "Which one of you can pick things up with your toes?"
Our daughter has monkey feet, too. She could tell, she said, by her unusually agile big toe, which she was wiggling vigorously and separating out from the rest of her toes.
He smiled and smiled: A pretty little girl with monkey feet!