A Milestone Reached

Last night, in a stunning turn of events, we reached a major developmental milestone in Gertrude's life. A milestone that many kids do not hit until they are five, sometimes even six. But Gert nailed it at four.

She got something stuck in her nose.

I was shaving, my face all lathered and have scraped when there arose such a shudder and racket. A scream of panic and terror.

When I found Gert, she looked terrified and pale.

"What's wrong," I asked, trying to soothe her.

"IwahGotwahSomethinggaspStucksobInwahMysobNose!"

"Okay," I said, suppressing a laugh and praying it wasn't something alive, "no big deal. This happens all the time. I've heard of peanuts, M&M's, bread, apples, very small rocks, cider, gravy, cherries, mud, churches and even a duck getting stuck in people's noses. What is it?"

"A Polly Pocket," she sobbed.

"Hmmm. Doll, outfit or shoe?" I was trying to get the logistics here while I found the flashlight.

"Shoe."

Sure enough, when I shone the flashlight up her little nostril I saw a smart pump with a chunky purple heel wedged in her nostril. It didn't look too bad, but . . . what was the best course of action? Blowing? Tweezers? Blasting caps? How to you discreetly remove something from your child's nasal passage without a) laughing and b) accidentally flinging debris up into her brain pan, causing permanent damage (am I the only one who saw Firestarter)?

We chose the natural, blowing method. While I calmed her down enough to do the extraction, I asked her how this happened.

"Well, I was playing with the Polly Pocket instead of getting my story for bedtime and I looked at the shoe and put it next to my nose. Then I stuck it in a little and then . . . and then . . . I couldn't get it out!"

"That's okay," I said, "it happens to the best of us. What have you learned?"

"That just because it fits I shouldn't try to stick it somewhere."

"That's right," I said, assuming we'd have this same conversation about drugs and sex in the future. "Now, blow! Blow hard!"

She did, and Polly's rubber, purple Costablanca shot out in a mass of snot into the tissue. We rejoiced and again reiterated the peril of sticking things in your nose. Then we hugged.

"Here," I said handing her the tissue with the snotty shoe, "you should go wash this off."

"That's okay," she said as she left the room, "it's Matilda's."