Rite of Passage

Earlier tonight, I gained true credibility as a mother of sons. One of those inevitable rites of childhood snuck up on us. Thankfully, neither Nate nor Jack broke a bone jumping from the top bunk in their room. They haven't tried that yet, so it's always a possibility. Nor has either successfully shot beans through a pipe into the other's eye. Or down a throat. Nate has tried, but he's not coordinated enough yet.

But somehow, right there at the dinner table as we were finishing our garlic/tomato basil chicken, cooked corn, and broccoli salad, Jack managed to shove two kernels of corn up his nose--one up each nostril. No "Look at me!" or "Hey, watch this!"-- we just happened to glance over and see one yellow blob at the entrance to one nostril. Got that one out easily. Scolded him for it. Then John says, "There's another one--other side."

Back when Jack had chronic ear infections, we'd bought a small lighted scope with the pointed end so we could see his eardrum. I dug that out of the bathroom cabinet, along with the baby nose suction bulb. Then we went to work.

Blow your nose! Suction. Blegh! Blow. Harder! Suction. Peer into the nostril. Nope, still there. Suction. Look. Suction. Blow! Again. Here, have some pepper. (I can't believe it didn't make him sneeze). Outside to look straight at the sun. No sneeze. Blow. Suction. Look up the nose. Still there. Hurts, Mommy! Give up for 15 minutes because he's crying so hard.

Poor John had to leave in the middle of all this to go to his class at UTD. After cleaning up the kitchen, I led Jack to the couch for another round with the suction bulb and scope. This time he got to "help" me squeeze the suction bulb each time I stuck it in his nose. Then he would blow through his nose. After about 10 minutes, Foomp! The kernel landed in the napkin I held.

He promised never to put corn up his nose again.

Rite.