My dad used to always tell me as a kid that if I could find a scientific use for snot, I’d be a rich man. Alas, I didn’t, and I blog.
But he should know; the man’s sinus cavity was actually forged directly from the Atacama Salt Flats. I’m not saying the man has a sinus problem, but he does own a backup Neti Pot. A spare. Just in case. I’m just saying.
As I am his direct descendant, heir to the sinusitis throne as it were, I also have more than my fair share of snorting, horking, goobers, boogers, snot and mucous fun. I’ve carried tissues in my left pocket since I was about four (possibly earlier) and get genuinely anxious if I find myself out and about without them. Family reunions are a hoot.
So it should come as no surprise, then, that The Bubster has some nasal issues. He quickly earned the nickname The Pugster on account of his rather audible breathing struggles.
We thought it was his diet, too much dairy, not enough Post-it notes. But there doesn’t seem to be any real pattern to it, it just comes and goes. Today he’s actually fine; two days ago, I needed a hammer and chisel to extricate the green crust that lined his nostrils.
He can’t blow his own nose yet, which is a problem. A problem only compounded by the fact that he is onto the aspirator, and much stronger and more agile in avoiding it. It’s an impromptu WWE match to suck his nose now. I’m currently riding a three-match win streak, though my overall record is a modest 13-5.
While it is gross in a way, I’ve come to actually enjoy a good nasal aspiration. If you have a tot handy, I highly recommend it. There’s something perversely satisfying about hearing that goo actually fill that little tube. Sometimes I’m amazed by the amounts that come out; sometimes I wish there was more. It’s like cracking the shell of crEme brulee; nobody can explain why, but it is totally rewarding.
I try to be optimistic about things, see the bright side. Bub is a picky eater. He throws food the way Jackson Pollock threw paint—a master of his medium. So last week we were sitting down for lunch, and he’d thrown half of his offerings on the floor. Typical. He had a few pieces of bread left in front of him. He was having a really bad nose day, and snot was just cascading from his nose.
So, you know , I reached over for a while to wipe it away, but this was Michael Myers snot—it just kept coming and coming and coming. Of course, some of the flood made its way to his mouth. Liquid. Yellow. Different. He didn’t seem to mind. Savory. In fact, I think he liked it, and I’m thinking great, a few extra calories! Like butter for his bread, a little food lube. He smiled, I smiled back. I eat his food off the floor, he eats the snot out of his nose; we’re not proud, we’re family.