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Broke Wife, Big City
Boogers: A love
story
By Aprill Brandon
There are a lot of mysteries in this world we have yet to solve. Why do
we all accept kale as food when clearly it’s gross? Why do we all
remember it as Berenstein Bears and not Berenstain Bears? Why do we all
hate Anne Hathaway and her stupid face so much? And then there’s black
holes and stuff. But while there are a million think pieces on Anne’s
dumb horse face and our collective desire to punch it, I have yet to
see professional, or even armchair, intellectuals address a much more
important and much more pressing mystery, even though it is an issue
that affects millions of households across this great nation of ours.
Yes, as common as it is, the blight of chronic toddler nose picking
remains one of our last great taboos (and this is in a society that has
made Irritable Bowel Syndrome a household name). So much so that even
all those “Well, actually” guys who know everything about everything
(but especially about whatever current topic you are discussing) are
silent on the issue. Star Wars? Feminism? The history of craft beer
brewing? They’re basically experts. And yet you bring up boogers?
Nothing. A resounding silence. All except for the faint, squishy sound
of a tiny, chubby finger shoved up a tiny nostril.
Sigh. Clearly, I get easily worked up over this issue. Because this one
hits close to home.
My son, my beautiful, baby boy, is a nose picker.
It started out with just the occasional experimental nasal expedition.
But now? Pffft. He’s gotta have a hit every 20 minutes or so.
What the hell is up there that is so goddamn important?
I mean, there has to be a reason. It must be something. Something must
be worth all those nosebleeds. Something must be worth the endless
punishments he’s given every time that finger finds its way back to
that nostril.
Is it nature? Some biological instinct? Although I can’t imagine what
survival skill is represented by this habit. Unless, perhaps it’s a
leftover part of our lizard brain from our caveman days? Maybe boogers
were an all-organic pigment for cave drawings? Or a natural glue for
the busy caveman on the go (because he’s constantly running from woolly
mammoths)?
My own personal pride makes me doubt that it’s the other side of the
coin, that it’s nurture. I pick my nose in secret. Like a lady.
It could have a nutritional aspect to it, I suppose. His body is
probably screaming out for something with protein since all he’ll eat
these days is cheese crackers and chocolate-covered raisins. Do boogers
have protein? Either way, it’s gotta be healthier than the “cheese”
(and I use that term oh-so-loosely) holding those crackers together.
Maybe the compulsion is psychological in nature. A distraction? A
coping mechanism? Digging into his nose is a physical manifestation of
digging into his psyche? He did watch a rather stressful “Sesame
Street” episode the other day.
Is it a scientific experiment? Seeing if it’s possible to touch his
brain? There are days he goes past the second knuckle. He’s gotta be
somewhat close.
Maybe he is quite literally digging for gold. Are boogers kid currency?
Has anyone investigated the seedy underworld of the kiddie black
market? Two boogers in exchange for a gram of uncut Nerd candies? Three
for a pack of candy cigarettes (are those even legal anymore)? An ounce
of mucus mixed with blood for a used fidget spinner?
WHY DO CHILDREN DO THIS?
And more importantly, how do I get mine to stop?
My fear is that this is just something he has to grow out of, a super
gross phase that will go away on its own.
Ugh.
Meanwhile, I guess I will just take solace in the fact that since he
has his finger up his nose in every single photo I take, I will have an
entire arsenal of blackmail pictures for those difficult teenage years.
Can’t get enough of Aprill? Can’t wait until next week?
Check out her website at http://aprillbrandon.com/
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