The professor and the two littlest blondies picked me up from an early morning appointment. When I climbed in the van, I noticed the Hen had what appeared to me a streak of um, ‘nose matter‘, glued to the tip of his nose. ‘What’s going on with his nose,’ I asked the professor. A little grossed out. Ready to wipe whatever it was off his face.
‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘The first thing the Gort said to me this morning was ‘Henners has a scratch on his nose’. I’m guessing he was responsible,’ the paternus familias surmised.
So we drove to the University where the professor had a meeting. And I returned home with the littles.
Young Percy had had another stellar ‘no-sleep’ night, so I put him to bed for a nap and turned my attention to the Hen’s nose. I gathered cotton balls and hydrogen peroxide. ‘No, not the black stuff!’ he yelled, refusing to enter the bathroom when he saw the (dark brown, not black) bottle of peroxide. ‘Okay,’ I placated, ‘I’ll just use water.’ So I made a big show of getting a cotton ball wet with water, only, and applied it to the tender area.
After a gentle cleaning, we retreated to the couch to read a book. We read a story of a moose named Ernest, while I stole glances at the injury. It just didn’t add up. We’d put the kid to bed with an uninjured nose. Certainly, he and his oldest brother could have fought about something in the minutes before they fell asleep. But there would have been weeping. Loud, dramatic weeping. He would have tattled, sobbing ‘Gaga scratched me,’ if that had been the case. I suppose he could have scratched his own nose…..but why would he cause himself such injury with nary a complaint afterwards?
‘Let me take another look at your nose,’ I insisted.
And I gingerly picked off the crusty layer of snot-not-scab; unveiling the three year old’s thoroughly unblemished nose.
It was eerily reminiscent of the time I applied a bandaid over a loose mole on the back of my fifteen year old neck. Only to discover several days later…..that it was a tick.