You can learn many things from children. How much patience you have, for instance.
~Franklin P. Adams
It was the time of day that every parent cherishes — naptime. I had just put down both kids. My son, Wesley, was really “down.” He had gotten it into his little head that sleeping on the floor was a great thing, and he was determined to nap there. Personally, I didn’t care — he was sleeping.
I had just dozed off after watching a rerun of Martha Stewart showing me how to maintain my massive orchard of apple trees when a scream pierced the silence. Wesley was in the living room, and blood was gushing out of his nose. At first, I didn’t panic because he gets nosebleeds from time to time due to his allergies. He was crying, and in between the snot and the blood, I could not make out why he was crying. Finally, he said, “A nail crawled up my nose.”
What? Surely he didn’t say “nail.” Maybe he said “snail.” After all, I am not the best housekeeper, and a snail can crawl, albeit very slowly. I looked up his nostril, half expecting to see the shell of a French entrée. Sure enough, there was a metal tip more than halfway up his nose. So much for pulling out a snail.
For those who are not parents, I must digress. I was the first one to tell anyone when I was childless that I would:
A. Never catch vomit in my hand
B. Only touch my own bodily fluids (i.e., blood, mucus, etc.)
C. Tell a baby he can change his own diaper
D. Never, ever look up someone’s body parts when blood was gushing out
Obviously, being a parent changes us. We become impervious to snot, blood, or both coming out of our child’s nose.
Anyway, I made the mistake of asking how long the nail was, and Wesley stretched his fingers as far as they could go. Where did this monstrosity come from? As far as I knew, my husband Dave and I were not in the construction or blacksmithing business. Also, how did this nail get into his nose? Wesley kept insisting that it did indeed rudely crawl up his nose. Despite the fact that I had taught him certain things were inanimate, he insisted. I stuffed a kitchen towel in his hand and told him to hold it against his nose to stop the blood. He was concerned about hurting the nail.
I dropped my infant daughter, Regan, off at her grandmother’s house and headed to the hospital. The doctor and nurse did a double take when I told them what happened — I guess they were expecting something normal like an ear infection. Wesley was still adamant that he did not push the nail up his nose.
After the nurse stopped laughing, they told me Wesley was going to be fine. They tried to get it out with tweezers even though I told them that Wesley would not stand for it. This kid thinks he’s dying when he gets a paper cut. He could win an award for best actor with his tantrums. The nurse medicated Wesley. They declined to medicate me although I believed I needed it more than Wesley. In the space of ten minutes, my three-year-old son was stoned.
“Mommy, Oprah’s dress is soooo green.” He laughed as he rolled around the hospital bed.
“Mommy, hold my hand,” he said as he threw his foot into my hand.
“Mommy, why is Regan a girl and me a boy?”
“Mommy, why do you throw your veggies to the dogs but make me eat them?” Oops.
This was getting serious. I knew a nail up the nose was not considered an emergency, but we had to get out of there before the kid told everyone I color my hair and secretly eat at Sonic for breakfast.
After I explained to Wesley why Oprah was giving away cars, the nurse came in and strapped my son to a cushioned thing that looked like a papoose. Any other time, Wesley would have screamed like he was being forced to eat squash. This time, he giggled. The doctor opened the door and came in carrying a sinister-looking tool designed to pull out railroad spikes. I felt lightheaded just looking at it; Wesley laughed uproariously. This had to be the plot of a Mel Brooks movie written by Stephen King.
In the space of two seconds, the doctor had pulled out a quarter-inch screw. He asked if I wanted to keep it as a souvenir. I thanked him and asked if I could have the T-shirt instead.
That night, Wesley finally admitted that the screw did not deliberately climb up his nose, but he put it up there to see if it would fit. He thought it would not. I suggested he not try that again, but I didn’t make a big deal of it, as I don’t want my children ever to stop exploring or asking questions.
To be on the safe side, I ran a metal detector through the house.
~Christy Breedlove
