My son is trying to kill me…

…or at least seriously injure me.

This week alone, I have stepped on the following objects while barefoot:

• A stray pair of drumsticks, which acted as rollers under my feet.
• A tiny finger-sized skateboard, with only one set of wheels attached. They went directly up into my foot.
• A blue guitar, which protested loudly when I crashed into it in the middle of the night. Mark simply rolled over and kept sleeping.
• A set of strewn-about Legos. Any parent who's ever stepped on one will tell you it's actually more painful than either waterboarding or a sharp needle to the eye. Again, bonus points to my feet for finding them in a darkened room in the middle of the night.
• Dry cat food, which comes in a convenient pyramid shape, just perfect for ramming up into the soft, tender part of your foot.
• A seashell recently acquired from a trip to the beach.
• A full-sized skateboard, which I managed to trip over versus step on. While I was relieved to find an object that did not cause me any podiatric pain, I skipped a few heartbeats as I almost tumbled into the hallway.

And what do all these items have in common, besides proving dangerous to my feet and my sanity? Well, according to Mark, nothing. They were just a random pattern of things I clumsily stepped on, through no fault of his.

I pointed out that 90% of the incidents occurred in his room, with his belongings, but he just shook his head sadly and said, “It wasn't me!”

Since Mark cannot remember carelessly tossing or dropping these toys onto the floor, I’ve run various scenarios in my head, looking for an explanation. I’ve only come up with one.

Apparently, I deduced, Mark’s hands no longer work. They cannot grip or hold things, or even wrap themselves around oddly-shaped objects for any length of time. This must be true, I told him, because how else would the objects end up on the floor so consistently, an imminent and lethal threat to my health?

If I thought such an outlandish explanation would spur Mark to honesty, I was wrong. Instead, he held out his palms, examined his hands and proclaimed I was right.

“My hands have been hurting me a lot,” he admitted, at which point my own hand involuntarily reached out and smacked his head.

“I can sympathize,” I explained. “My own hands spasm quite a bit. In fact, the more things I step on, the worse it gets.” At least he was smart enough to back up a bit.

“So,” I asked. “You make sure your stuff is picked up and I’m not injured any more, and my hand spasms to your head will be cured. Either that, or I’ll just start throwing out whatever I step on. Agreed?”

And, magnanimously, he did agree. I thought it was very generous of him, all things considered.