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If anyone has any suggestions or experiences they’d like to share, I’d love to hear them:

“It’s time.”

“No!”

“Come back here!  It’s got to be done before someone, meaning me, gets hurt.”  I hear a muffled, exasperated sigh.  “I can see you.  Throwing your jacket over your head may work on the baby, but I’m onto that trick.”

I pulled the hoodie off and tried to look pathetic.  It wasn’t hard.  “I don’t have the stomach for it.  Besides, you trained for this in the army.  You went through jungle school.  You know how to use a machete.”

My husband put on his patient face.  “True, but the army didn’t train me to use baby nail clippers.”  He shuddered.  “Those things scare me.”  Said the man who walked passed anacondas and snakes (Fur-De-Lance) whose venom would kill you within two steps every day when stationed on a South American army base.  Changing to his determined face, he said, “I call containment duty.”  He was pitting his steady hunky 200 pounds against our daughter’s 16 pounds of squirmy cuteness.  Almost a fair contest.

I broke out in a clammy sweat.  Fodknockers!  He beat me to calling the coveted position of containment duty.  He got to hold her while I used the nail clippers.  I raised my chin and replied with forced calm.  “I’ll get the clippers.”  I stalked stiff legged into the bathroom and retrieved the dreaded item.

Fortunately, our daughter hasn’t seen the clippers enough to be traumatized at the mere sight of them.  I’ve been lucky so far the entire two times that We’ve screwed up the nerve to cut her tiny baby nails.  Making my pleas to God, I took hold of the first tiny, perfect finger.  I couldn’t resist one last look into those big, trusting blue eyes that might never look at me the same again.

“Ready?”

“No.”

“Honey!”

“Well you asked!”

By the eighth finger, I remembered to breath.  So far, no blood.  Two more to go.  I looked at my husband to see how he was holding up.  He was breathing fast, shallow breaths.  He bit his lip and readjusted his hold.  Our daughter chewed on her free fingers, looking with innocent, oblivious fascination at a tumbling dust bunny.  As the air conditioner kicked on, I shivered and the clippers quivered in my grasp.

“Steady.”

I nodded and slowly squeezed the evil appliance.  Then her finger moved.  Just a fraction.  The clipper pinched down and I pulled it back with a gasp, flinging the offending tool of the devil down.  Shocked blue eyes swept up to meet mine.  I froze as she looked to me as to how she should react.  She must have picked up on my guilt because ever so slowly, her lower lip slipped out and her face crumpled into tears.  As many a mother has felt before, I am the worst mommy ever.  She took a couple of hiccupping sobs and then got over it when another dog hair tumbleweed rolled by.  I anxiously checked her finger.  No blood, no mark.  Somehow, I managed to finish and I have since called “containment duty infinity”.  Or I’m just going to let them grow, have her wear mittens and have the Doctor do it.  He is a trained professional.