By Jenny Halteman

For every year of her life, my daughter has shoved some sort of thingamajig up into her perfect little nose. This annual event wouldn’t have me so worried except for the fact that each time it happens it gets a little worse. A little harder to extract. A little more dangerous. And…she has yet to do it this year. Tick tock tick tock.

The first was a silvery little pom pom. She wasn’t yet old enough to talk. We were on our way to the grocery store, and she had stowed it away into the depths of her skull prior to leaving home. I know this now because she began exhibiting this weird little sniff that became more and more violent as we searched for a parking spot. By the time my husband put the car in park, she began freaking out. She emitted the squeal of a pig on exhale, a snort on inhale, her eyes bulging and arms flailing. Had it not been for the sniffs and snorts, I wouldn’t have known what was going on.

I raced around and began trying to calm her down. I tried teaching her the breathing methods I had learned one year prior in my Bradley birth classes. When that didn’t work, I shook a brightly colored ducky rattle at her. When all else failed, I handed her my phone with Elizabeth Mitchell singing Three Little Birds. Magic.

My husband was able to get her to point her nose to the sky. At first I didn’t see anything. Both nostrils looked exactly the same, but every few seconds she would start the snorting thing again and go totally crazy. She looked up once more and finally I saw a little glittery shine.

Extracting a goobered-up puff ball out of a one-year-old’s nose is easier said than done. It had worked its way up behind her freaking eyeballs, and we were in a parking lot with no tools to help in our archaeological dig. I’m sure people thought we were out of our minds as we hovered over our daughter, but we were focused.

I pushed her forehead with my fingers and took my thumb and lifted the sweet tip of her little nose high into the air, pushing her head back even farther to see better. She was just learning how to blow her nose, so I covered one nostril and told her to blow that boogie out. Incredibly, after half a dozen tries, I was able to pinch one little frond and eeeeeeek it out.

Friends, this was no small puff ball. It was one of the monstro kinds! She had stopped putting things in her mouth, so we thought she was safe with soft puffy craft items, but in the two seconds that it took me to get my shoes on at home, she had tucked it away with ease.

A year went by. We were visiting the grandparents. Grandpa has always loved buying the girls new play-doh, and they were all happily making little dinosaur eggs at the table. Yes, this time at least two grown adults were facing her at all times. It had been an entire year since she had even considered plugging her nose, so we assumed we were in the clear. Yet suddenly there she was, making that crazy sucking sound again.

It couldn’t be.

Grandpa had gone all out and bought the neon play-doh. “Kiddo, did you put something up your nose?” This time she could talk at least. But nervously she said “no” and looked away and tried those Bradley breaths herself. Tears welled up in her eyes. She tried to keep playing, but lost focus. She quietly said, “Well, maybe, just a little.”

At least this time we were inside. Tweezers were right around the corner. Flashlight in hand, my husband peered into the depths. “Nothing. There’s nothing there.” He pushed the cartilage tip to the left and right. “Are you sure you put something in there?” It seemed silly to even question it, but she was still only two. Maybe she had a serious booger and the power of suggestion had her confused? But by now she was adamant. “Yes, Daddy. This color.” She pointed to the neon blue.

My husband is colorblind, so I decided to take a peek. Once again she began to freak and snort and snuff. I gazed for a solid minute. I saw nothing. “Blow, baby.” A little snot flew out. “Does that feel better? I think you just had a boog….” My voice trailed off. There, even further than the pom pom had been was a blue ball. A dinosaur egg.

Sh*t.

No tweezers would ever get that far in. At least not the ones that we had access to.

Instead of driving her all the way to the ER (because of course it was after-hours), we called first. My husband called and I packed a bag and wondered how on earth they’d ever get that out. I began hyperventilating, thinking of my sweet girl laying on the table, evil mad-scientist doctors coming at her with weird never-before-seen tools.

But no. After a long conversation with many nurses and a doctor (at a hospital I didn’t trust at all), my husband said, “Apparently it’ll just soften. Dissolve. Disintegrate. Liquefy. Deliquesce.”

“Ummm. For real? Gross.”

Thankfully, she was much calmer this time around, so we cautiously trusted the doctors. Neither of us slept that night, and in the morning, we shoved flashlights all up in her face. It was still there, but she acted as though nothing was wrong. Within a week it really did disappear. Magic.

By three, we obtusely had incredible faith in our sweet, darling, perfect-nosed little daughter. After collecting cupfuls of seashells from the beach, she was sitting on the floor, lovingly admiring her new collection. I was busy making dinner. Something simple that she’d actually eat. Shells and cheese, some carrots, and fresh fruit.

And there, like a nightmare. De. ja. vu. “Snnnnnnnooooorrrrrrrt.”

“Um. Is everything OK?”

“Yeah, mama. I love my seashells. Love. Love. Love. LOVE.”

“You didn’t put one up your nose, did you? Like seriously, just tell me now if you did.”

Somehow these events have always happened when my husband has been home. I don’t know why or how I’ve been so lucky. So there he was, searching in her nose, but this time it was clear as day. A freaking seashell in her freaking nose. This one flared her nostril, so she looked like some weird caricature of herself. Ok. This one couldn’t be that bad. It was right there, right at the bottom.

Except this time, she’d shoved it so that only the soft, roundy parts of the shell were showing. There was literally nothing to grab onto. She was surprisingly calm, but I was panicking.

“Why? Why? WHY, baby. Why?”

Tweezers in hand, I started poking and prodding at her face. I gently pushed down from above, seeing if it’d just pop right out. I (again) plugged the other nostril and had her blow. “Blow with all your might!” But budge it did not.

Snot began pouring from the plugged nostril. The seashell swam in the liquid, and suddenly I saw it. An edge! It couldn’t be. But it was true. Within a split second it disappeared, so I sat, face within inches of her nose, waiting for that perfect moment where that edge would return. She breathed in and out, in and out. And there it was again! I clasped the shell with the tweezers and held still. The shell was slippery, and I knew if I made a wrong move, I’d either cut her or lose the shell and all progress made.

Slowly but surely I extracted the specimen. Slime strung from her face, sticking to the cute little seashell she wanted to make a part of her body.

And then, the timer on the stove beeped—the shells and cheese were done.

We ordered a pizza that night.

I don’t know what year four will bring us, or if “three’s a charm” applies to nasal objects.

Whatever happens, I’m prepared.

***********

About Jenny  Halteman

Jenny Halteman lives in a small town in northern Michigan. She homeschools her daughters and is passionate about playing the banjolele and throwing axes. She lived on a boat for six years with her husband and is happy to have returned to the dirt-dwelling life. You can follow her on Twitter (@Jenny Halteman) and Instagram (@jennyhalteman).