I have a problem and here it is. I can’t help picking my babies’ noses. There, I told you. I see a booger in there within reach and I have to get it out. The babies hate it. They squirm and cry. Their tiny nostrils are so pink and sensitive. But I can’t help myself.
I never imagined I’d be picking someone else’s nose. When I get the booger out I never know exactly what to do with it, either. I have to walk to the sink with my finger extended before me, as far away as possible from myself, in the breeze. If it doesn’t come off when the faucet stream hits it, I can’t touch it with my other hand, as if I weren’t already holding it.
But what else is there to to? “Hey, pssst, you got a little something right there,” I say to M, motioning subtly. But they just smile obliviously. It’s a tough, thankless job.
I told D about my problem and he said I should write a blog about it. So you can blame him for this.