Oh the joy of being a grandmother and being able to deal with this foot.
To dust off the bottom of it before putting on tight stretchy socks.
To try as hard yet as gently as I can to somehow fit it into a shoe.
To check for injuries, real or imagined.
To watch it sometimes stomp in anger.
To know that in order to do any of these things, the owner of this foot is sitting in my lap.
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