Will has developed this charming new habit of sticking his finger into his nose. Since he then announces, "Nana--nose!" there isn't much doubt who it is he's trying to charm with this lovely new habit. I have to say, I'll be glad when we get past this stage.
Last night, after he'd eaten a giant helping of cheese ravioli, my mom pulled out a little M&M statue guy filled with mini M&M's. She peeled off the wrapper, opened the top, poured some of the little chocolate balls onto Will's tray, replaced the cap, and stood the statue guy on the edge of the tray. He watched every move, fascinated. Mini M&M's, which he calls "balls," are his new favorite things.
After he'd eaten a few chocolates, he grabbed the statue guy, opened the top, and poured the rest of the candy onto his tray. The next few minutes were filled by replacing the candies, one by one, into the container and then dumping them out again. It was a fabulous game.
I was clearing the table. Kirk was pulling together the trash to put out, and Mom was gathering her things to head to the grocery store.
Suddenly, Will twisted around in his chair, slightly agitated, and said, "mommy--ball nose."
All activity in the kitchen stopped. "Will, did you put a ball in your nose?" He nodded.
"Show Mommy where the ball is."
The finger slid into his right nostril, no doubt pushing the offending candy deeper in.
"What's in your nose?" I asked him, wanting to be sure he was telling me what I thought he was telling me.
"Ball!"
He scratched at his nose, then went back to moving candy from the tray to the container.
A quick look up his nostril revealed nothing. Too dark. We searched for a flashlight. Because Will loves them, we didn't seem to have a working one in the kitchen. He's broken all of them. Kirk ran upstairs to get his camping headlamp out of his drawer.
First, he shined the light up Will's nose. "I'm not sure if that's an M or a hair," he said to me, handing over the light. I crouched onto the floor, headlamp in hand, and made a face at Will. "Go like this," I said, flaring my nostrils as far as I could and making silly eyes. He followed suit.
There, up as far as it could go and still be in his nose, sat nestled one brown mini M&M.
Kirk dialed the pediatrician's emergency number as I shut off the light. "No Mommy--my turn!" Will announced, reaching for the headlamp. He insisted we put it on him. I looked at him and laughed. A slight brown chocolate trickle was coming from his nostril. "Maybe it will just melt out!" my mom added.
I told the answering service who I was and that my son had a mini M&M in his nose. Despite the fact that I was worried he might suck in and aspirate the thing, I couldn't help but laugh. How sterotypical a call to the doctor's office was this?!
They took our information and promised to have the doctor on call phone us back. It was, of course, the same doctor who had been on call during Will's recent vomiting episode.
As we waited for the return call, I changed out of my pajamas and into hospital-presentable clothes, certain we were on our way to the emergency room. As I pulled my sweater on, the phone rang.
We caught the nursing staff at the pediatrician's office before they all left for the night. After putting me on hold again and consulting with the doctor, the wonderful nurse told me to try one more thing, with the understanding that if it didn't work, we were on our way to the ER.
Under her instruction, I held Will's left nostril shut and told him to blow hard. A snotty, melty, gooey, brown orb shot out of his nose and onto my mom's sweater.
Thankful, I listened to the nurse's instructions to squeegee out his nostril with the suction bulb and spray some saline solution up there.
My mother reminds me of the time in kindergarten when I stuck the piece of doll stuffing up my nose and it had to be retrieved in the ER. I gather, then, that this is some kind of parental right of passage.
Never a dull moment in the Jenistar house...
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