I don’t mean to brag, but I perform brilliantly in a crisis. Oops, I guess I do mean to brag.
In fact, I am giving myself permission to toot my shiny horn about how I handled a medical crisis in my own home all by myself.
Typically, my life does not call on me to do anything other than utterly fall apart or shop on-line when a crisis hits, because (1) I am extremely risk averse so I expertly limit exposure to potential harm, and (2) my husband actually grows calmer when danger or drama threatens, so I have total freedom to lose my stuffing when he’s around.
But this week Jeff was out of town, and Outlaw Mama was the only adult at the helm when our family ship hit an iceberg.
It takes an unusually perceptive parent to know what to do when her young son points at his nose and screams, “NUT!” And because I am sharp as a rusty nail sticking out of a barn door, I figured out that Simon had shoved a pistachio up his nose. I squelched my first instinct (to remind him how expensive pistachios are and that he must not waste them), and my second instinct (to keep reading This Old House in hopes that it would all work out without losing my place in the article on paneling a summer cottage), and went with my third: I got off my ass.
Folks, just because Simon’s head measures in the 90th percentile, that does NOT mean he has a 90th percentile nostril. I wager that his nostril is closer to the 15th percentile. I should know– I spent the better part of an hour trying to extract a nut from it.
“Blow, Simon! Like this,” I begged, while I snorted debris out of my own nose, trying to demonstrate proper blowing. Simon kept crying, “nut!” Sadie employed her own technique to teach Simon to expel the nut, which included screaming “Poopy Pants,” right in his face. That was not what I had in mind when I said, “Sadie, step back and give us some space.”
I grew dehydrated from all my blowing demonstrations; roughly 40% of my body fluid was ejected from my nose while trying to teach Simon to blow out the nut. When my blood splattered on the kitchen table, I knew I had to try something else.
I tried to grab the tip of the nut from Simon’s nose, but it was so slippery that all I accomplished was shoving it farther up his nasal cavity. I admit there was a moment when I feared we’d all end up in the hospital waiting for Simon’s brain surgeon to inform us whether he got the pistachio out of his cerebellum. Eventually I ran my finger along his nostril until it popped out like champagne cork on New Year’s Eve.
Thank God I didn’t have to call Jeff to tell him that Simon had a premium nut in his nose.
“Simon, from now on, you cannot put anything in your nose, except your finger, okay?” I instructed. Simon and I, survivors of the great ordeal, hugged tightly (after I Instagrammed the soggy nut). Sadie, never one to let the spotlight pass her by, grabbed it off the table and popped it in her mouth. Thereafter, she commenced to pick her nose.
I was calmer than that pilot who landed a commercial airliner on the Hudson River. And I’ll be bragging about this all week.