Patrick Sticks a Lego Where the Sun Don't Shine, and Nurses Stick It To Vincent

Patrick certainly put a different spin on the old ad adage, “Leggo my Eggo,” when he rushed to Melissa and implored: “Mommy, get it OUT!”

He pointed frantically to his nose, and she couldn’t imagine why he raised such a clatter — until she rushed to the window of his nostrils to see what was the matter. To her surprise, and chagrin, she discovered that a Lego had become lodged deep in the darkness of one of his wind tunnels.

And it wasn’t just resting in there, like a booger about to be freed from its entrapment in his teensy-tiny nose hairs and waft into the atmosphere. Unfortunately, it wasn’t a square peg in a round hole, which might have been easier to dislodge with a tweezers in a practiced hand. Rather, it was a round piece that had worked its way farther up the lad’s nostril as he had tried to retrieve it.

I couldn’t help but regret, as Melissa told me the story over the phone, that I had neglected to tell Patrick never to put anything in his nose except a finger on a mining expedition, or, perhaps, his elbow. (I know that echoes the advice never to put anything in your ear bigger than your elbow, so call me orifice retentive; you just shouldn’t put stuff where it doesn’t belong.)

No, this isn't Patrick with the Lego up his nose, because nobody had a teeny-tiny camera to send on a journey to the center of his nostril. As you may recall, this was his Target Secret moment when he went bra hopping. He just has this HABIT of putting things where they don't belong. (SMILE)


God only knows how or why Patrick stuck the Lego where the sun don’t shine, and Melissa probably figured that only God would know how to get it out.


As Patrick Michael flailed and railed, Mommy tried to remain calm. She urged him to blow air out of his nostril, as if he were blowing his nose. Of course, we all know that a 3-year-old hasn’t mastered such basic bodily functions, among others — especially when he’s got a Lego lodged in his snotlocker.

So the lad was inhaling instead of propelling the Lego from his hangar into orbit. It really sucked.

Melissa sent Skip to the computer so he could Google a magic solution to avoid having to traipse to the E.R., sitting there for hours, and having to fork over hundreds for an insurance co-pay. One website that proffers fixes for children’s mishaps suggested pepper, cinnamon, or something else to induce a sneeze.

As Mom lined up those options, she called a nurse friend for a second opinion. Laura cautioned against being too creative because, if the tricks didn’t work and they had to go to the E.R., staffers would have to report it as an “incident,” which could lead to reports and, well, you know the drill. It’s better not to try it at home.

Another option was using air to force out the plastic intruder. Being a gentle mom, Melissa wouldn’t have considered using a shop vac, no matter how gently, as a wag would suggest to her later.

Instead, she told her youngest that she was going to kiss him and blow into his mouth at the same time. This she did, becoming a human jaws of life of sorts, blowing gently while she closed off the free nostril.

Ka-BLAM, the Lego shot across the room like an RPG, she reported to me with relief.

Patrick was shocked and awed, startled, and stunned. Shocked and awed that he could breathe, and startled and stunned that the Lego piece was orange.

“MOMMY!” he exclaimed. “I thought it was a red piece!”

And that’s the way it is with kids, recovering with a practical observation after courting disaster.

I suppose it’s important to note that no Legos were harmed in this incident.

The tale segues to another medical emergency, and one that ended up being more perilous. It involved Vincent, just a day or two after Patrick’s Lego moment, that showed the 10-year-old’s indomitably optimistic approach to life.

He had been feeling poorly for a day or so. You know the scenario: sick enough to suggest staying home from school, but not sick enough to miss flag football. (Well, to be perfectly honest, Vincent normally wouldn’t lobby to stay home from school. He’s the type whose hair would have to be on fire before he would even consider skipping school — and even then he’d try to put on a hat to snuff the flames and then head to school. So the fact that he even suggested it this time indicates he was really sick, although he did want to go to flag football, and he did.)

So Skip and Melissa did the usual doctoring that parents can do, but Vincent took a turn for the worse around 11 p.m. His lips ballooned so big that they would have made a Snoopy balloon in Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade look like a stocking stuffer.

She called a doctor’s service, who told her to high-tail it to E.R. Once there, the nurses hopped to it, sticking in an IV and fitting him with an oxygen mask.

Even though it took three sticks to connect the IV to a vein (driving Melissa NUTS — as every mom [and many dads] knows, it’s hard to watch your own child be a pin cushion even when the needle hits the target the first time), Vincent took everything not only in stride but also with an optimism that would make Pollyanna look like a pessimistic, prickly porcupine.

Looking around the room as Melissa stood watch, he observed, “This isn’t too bad. The bed is comfortable, and we’re getting to spend time together.”

Ah, good times. Well, those good times stretched to nearly five hours as docs and nurses tried to figure out what might have sparked the apparent allergic reaction and to treat it.

Even at this point, serving as a pin cushion and surrounded by hospital paraphernalia, Vincent tries to put on a happy face. But he said to Melissa after she took the photo: "Sorry if my smile is not so good. It's kind of hard to smile now." I bet Melissa teared up at that show of courage under needles. Recalling the exchange, she says: "He is amazing!"

On way home, at 4:30 a.m., Melissa noted that they probably should grab some breakfast before trying to get some shuteye.

So Mom and her firstborn pulled into Dunkin’ Donuts for a little more quality time.

Ahhh, good times. But I can’t help but wonder: If Patrick puts 2 and 2 together and realizes Vincent snagged some doughnut holes for his emergency, while all he got was an orange snot rocket out of his deal, he just might give another Lego a wedgie into his nostril.

NOW I Know Why Avery's Skeert of Me

Avery has been in a phase of late, one that might faze lesser men than I. Although the lad is still more than three months from being in his own terrible 2s, he has settled into a streak in which he’s terrified of me. (Many contend that my own terrible 2s have continued for 60-plus years.)

Even though he runs away from me with Olympic speed, I have talked myself into being unflappable rather than flummoxed.

I’ve got evidence that he wasn’t always so skeert of me. And I know it isn’t all about me, because I have further evidence that his parents have duped the normally happy lad into acting terrified around me.

You see, they have made his blood run purple. And that, my friends, is why he lets out blood-curdling screams when I approach. Indeed, his terror smacks him sight unseen. A couple of weeks back, when Kate and I trekked from our new digs in La Crosse, Wis., to his new digs in a Twin Cities suburb to visit, he started screaming when he saw her, because he’s bright enough to realize that, when she’s around, I can’t be far away.

Sure ’nuf, when I rounded the corner, his screams intensified, and he clung to Mommy all the tighter. Oh, he’d give me fist-bumps and high-fives, but he screamed bloody murder when I tried to pick him up.

Oddly enough, these incidents came only a few months after we’d had great fun playing together, and he even tried to look down my gullet to see what I’m made of or, perhaps, what I had for dinner.

Here is photographic evidence that we can get along famously, in happier times:







Shortly thereafter, though, his terrors of me happened day or night, although they remind me of the night terrors his dad experienced as a young boy when he sleepwalked, often morphing into episodes of fear.

But back then, in the days of Refrigerator Perry, Brendan was a Bears fan, as many folks in Dubuque, Iowa, were, so I doubt that there was a football connection to his bad dreams.

After we moved to Minnesota, though, he got the purple gangrene, a malady that his milady, Erica, shares.

So I suspect a Vikings connection with Avery aversion to me. Time was, I even fancied myself as a Vikings fan, even when I lived in Florida, because I couldn’t stand the Miami Dolphins, let alone the dadgummed Gator Nation.

Now that I’m ensconced in the Badger State, home of the Packers green and gold, I suspect that they’re green with envy, especially because the Packers are golden these days. And the Vikings are, well, hardly deserving of the Nordic name.

Brendan and Erica — well, probably Brendan moreso than Erica — have forced the Vikings upon Avery almost from the moment he popped into the world.

Indeed, during the tot’s first football seasons on Earth, Mom and Dad decked him out in Vikings apparel.


Obviously, Avery has no idea that his parents use him as a pawn on Game Daze, in these duds they forced him into when he didn't have enough hair to stand on end at the terrifying thought of what they had done.

Kate and I avoided the temptation to turn them over to child protective services for abusing the lad. Actually, we did so because child protection could have looked at us askance for giving him a battery-operated car for his first Christmas. OK, so he was too young, but I got a great deal on the “Cars” car, and I’d become addicted to giving the Four Horsemen cars when they were too young, too.

Fortunately, he didn’t learn how to drive it until a few months ago, but even then, he drove it like the Vikings have played football this season: straight into a tree. And he just kept his pedal to the metal, as the spinning wheels tossed mulch into the air.



I just got back from a visit to the next generation of Tighes, once removed from me, and I made some headway. Early on, he went to great pains to avoid me, clinging to the wall as he walked around the house so he could stay as far away from me as possible.

But after he feasted on pizza, when he was still trapped in the high chair so he couldn’t flee, he actually laughed and giggled when I tickled him. We parted on super terms.

Only later, though, did I discover that the plot had thickened, with an expanded list of players. Of course, I had worn my Packers jacket, to taunt the Vikings Purple People Eaters.

After I left Avery’s place, I went to my daughter Allison’s salon. She smiled at my jacket and said Brendan had texted her about it. That seemed odd, but I assumed he had texted a message saying something like, “I can't BELIEVE that Dad is wearing Packers green and gold.”

Allison told me to turn around, so she could see “the letters,” so I did, thinking she meant the Packers. She laughed, and her customer laughed.

Only later, when I took my jacket off, did I see that somebody had vandalized it, covering “Packers” with a piece of tape saying, “SUCK.” AHA! Proof that they’re brainwashing the boy, and THAT's why he's been afraid of me. Very, VERY afraid, because I represent something that's crushed the Viqueens.

Frustrated Vikings fans resort to vandalism because they can't win. Fortunately, it's only a misdemeanor, unlike the Vikes' felonious season.

I blamed Brendan at first, until I noticed that the handwriting looked more like Erica’s block letters than his. And NOW, I’ve discovered, through sleuthing and a spy who will remain nameless, that her dad was in on the scheme, too.

I’m stunned, STUNNED, I tell ya, that a man of the cloth would stoop to vandalism. Obviously, Larry is man of the purple cloth.

Well, I suspect that I’ll be getting the last laugh when the Pack gives the Vikings a football lesson in their second meeting of the season Monday night. I predict a reprise of the Packers’ 33-27 win over the Vikings in October.

That will give the Purple Gang reason to cry in their purple beer. And I’ll be able to convert Avery to being a fan of a quarterback whose name also starts with an A, Aaron Rodgers.

And we'll see who sucks.

Allison Morphs From a Scaredy-Kid Into a Soft-Hearted Aunt

Time was, I didn’t think I’d ever see Allison warm up to kids. Well, let me refine that: Time was, I didn’t think I’d ever see Allison warm up to children.

If you buy the old admonition that you shouldn’t call children kids because kids are goats, then Al always has liked kids because she always has favored animals. At one time, she even aspired to becoming a veterinarian.

I swear, there have been times when she would have thrown me under the bus to save an animal. (That’s why I lied to her during a family trip when she was about 5 or 6. Driving in the dark on a two-lane, rural highway, I couldn’t swerve to avoid the raccoon. I SWEAR, I didn’t have time to swerve, and the coon froze like a deer in headlights. When Allison heard the “thump-thump-thump” under the car, she awoke from a slumber in the back seat and said, “What was that?” “It was just a rock in the road,” I said as Annie and Brendan exchanged knowing glances [as older siblings are wont to do]. “Go back to sleep.” Had I told the truth, she’d have tossed me under the van.)

Actually, I even recall the time she did throw somebody under the bus, after a fashion, although it wasn’t me. It occurred shortly after I moved to Florida, after she graduated from high school, lo those many years ago.

A hurricane — I can’t remember which one, there were so many that year — had just raked South Florida, and I called Al back home to regale her with tales of my first experience with that side of Mother Nature.

I told her the tragic story of a group of five adults out walking a dog to survey the damage resulting from the hurricane: They were electrocuted as they walked through water that was electrified by a downed power line.

Without missing a beat, Allison’s only question was: “What happened to the dog?”

That obviously underscores her priorities, and her leanings toward four-footed creatures. More evidence: She lived on a ranch for four years or so, taking care of about 50 horses including her full-time job as a hairstylist. And the horse she leases, Gammon, is one of the great loves of her life.

Al and Gammon.

She was devastated when her first dog, Yippers (aptly named because the little feller yapped at everything and everybody), passed into the great beyond of Kibbles and Bits, and her love for her present dog, Rodeo, knows no bounds.

Al's Yippers lives on in doggie heaven, and her heart.

As for Rodeo, he's a loyal friend and dedicated sentinel for Allison, often taking up his post on her front porch to watch the world go by as he waits for her to return from work.

Rodeo maintains his vigil at one of his favorite spots, on Allison's front porch.

So, in the course of her life, Al’s always preferred to stay an arm’s length from kids. Indeed, she even used to stiffen up when a child came into a room, and got a deer-in-headlights look if it looked like a youngster might touch her.

Until NOW. Aunt Allison is a whole different animal, so to speak, and it’s kind of a triple-A situation: Allison, Amelia, and Avery. When Amelia and Avery are around, she has dears in her headlights.

In fact, she even blows bubbles with Amelia during trips to California.

How cute is THAT, with Al reprising her childhood with niece Amelia?

And during her most recent trip, after she’d been gone for a couple of hours, Amelia approached her seriously and grabbed her leg, almost sobbing, as she said, “I missed you sooooooooooo MUCH.”

As for Avery, even though he’s in a phase in which he cries when some people try to hold him, namely Allison and moi, among a few others, Aunt Allison still cuddles the little bugger, as evidenced by this photo of them when we were out for lunch a couple of months back.

Once averse to children, Aunt Al now hugs Avery with a passion.

So the daughter who once froze around kids now melts, although she doesn’t always like to admit that.

When I told her I was working on this column about her softening heart as an aunt, she mulled the idea quietly for a few seconds before saying: “Well, OK, but Rodeo’s still my favorite.”

And THAT's OK. (But pictures tell a different story: The kids are at least equal, no?)