We have gone from a high temperature of 102 degrees to one of 68 degrees, in the course of two days. That only happens in Small Town, USA, because we can never get our act together and decide if we want the flip-flops and SPF 150, or if we want the collegiate sweatshirt and pumpkin spice latte. Frankly, I enjoy a solid sixty-eight degrees, so I’m leaning more in that direction, but my mother-in-law basically used profanity this morning when she texted me and said, “It’s so cold outside, it feels like winter.”
I don’t think we need to be slinging the word WINTER around right now. I told her that she should probably wash her mouth out for using such an awful word, when it was only August 18th, and she replied, “I’ll use hot cocoa.”
Seeing as how there was a bit of a premature nip in the air first thing this morning, I pulled out a pair of sweatpants for Thing 2 when he got out of the shower today.
(Yes. Our three-year-old showers in the morning, because when he takes a bath, we need flood insurance, beach towels, yoga retreats with deep breathing and Valium.)
It’s no secret that sweatpants are Thing 2’s favorite thing to wear, period. I think his built-just-like-the-Hulk figure enjoys a good elastic waistband. When he saw that his outfit included sweatpants for the first time all summer, he shouted, “Oh, man! Sweatpants! I love sweatpants! I love today!”
After he was dressed, I made him a breakfast of organic, sugar-free, gluten-free oatmeal, complete with dried apples and a fresh banana, because occasionally I can nail this LET’S EAT HEALTHY gig. While I was sitting with him as he ate, Thing 2 informed me that he had a booger in his nose, and would I please get it out for him.
Yes, Son. I live to be at your continual service for dislodging enormous boogers with my bare hands.
And that is exactly what I did. I reached over to his face, grabbed the dried little bit of offensive boogerness, and whipped it right out of his nose, because listen… This isn’t my first mothering rodeo. I can pull a booger loose without gloves, and I can catch vomit with my hands cupped together, too.
See that spot on my forehead? That’s where you can stick the gold star.
As soon as he could breathe again, Thing 2 wildly flapped his arms like a bird winding up for a massive takeoff and hollered, “Don’t wipe that booger on my good sweatpants!!!”
What kind of mother does he think he has?! How many times has this toddler ever witnessed me wiping a booger on a pair of pants? The answer would be NEVER TIMES. How many times have I sighed and wanted to pound my own skull against the wall, when I’ve discovered dried boogers in places other than Kleenex around our house?! The answer would be ALL THE STINKING TIME.
I showed Thing 2 this morning that the proper way to dispose of a booger on our finger is to actually get up from what we’re doing and yank out a few inches of toilet paper, even though Thing 2 thinks seventeen feet of toilet paper is the appropriate amount for any job. Then I clearly demonstrated that WE PUT THE BOOGER IN THE TOILET PAPER, AND THEN WE PUT THE TOILET PAPER IN THE GARBAGE, AND THEN WE WASH OUR HANDS, AND WE USE THE SOAP IN ABUNDANCE.
Afterward, when we were back to the organic, sugar-free, gluten-free, loaded-with-dried-apples-and-fresh-banana-slices oatmeal, Thing 2 looked at me and said, “When you have a booger on your finger, wipe it off with toilet paper, Mom.”
I clapped. “Yes! We wipe it off with toilet paper.”
Clearly, my lesson on Booger Disposal sunk in.
“You should always use toilet paper, Mom, because I get so tired of you wiping boogers on my good sweatpants.”
And that, y’all, is why I contemplated whether or not 7:30 in the morning was too early for a nice glass of wine.