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.
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