Always and For Never

Since becoming a mother on February 6, 2006, I have been a big proponent of absolutes when it comes to parenting. Here are a few:

Jarrah will always love vegetables.
Jarrah will always be fearless.
Jarrah will never be potty-trained.
Jarrah will never use scissors in a manner disrespectful to my property.

One by one, these absolutes have toppled like so many alphabet blocks. Yet I keep finding faith in new ones, Readers. Here's one that I have believed in--with great smugness, I should add--for nearly three years:

Jarrah will never ram anything up her nose--she's too sensible for that.

Do you hear that sound, Readers? It's the sound of cherubs crying. The ones who have kept me veiled in innocence for so long, and now must see me dazzled by the blinding truth.

Two nights ago, I was making dinner (rather handily, I might add--I had several pots boiling at once) when Jarrah, who'd been rolling on the carpet in front of the TV, suddenly announced:

"I need to get this out."

"What do you need out?" I asked, without turning around. I didn't want to oversteam my broccoli.

"I need...this out." Now I turned around. She was pointing to her nose. I could see something poking from her left nostril. It looked like a giant booger. As I moved towards her, flexing my index finger, I realized it was far too white to be a booger. Too shiny. And too...large.

At this point, I should divert briefly to describe an earlier incident. During school pickup that day, Jarrah had spotted a tiny, round stone on the curb. "Can I bring this home?" she asked. Who knows why she wanted it? She gets very attached to random natural objects. One day a pine cone, the next a stick, the day before a dessicated leaf.

"Sure," I said.

"I'm going to call him Rocky."

"Sounds like a plan."

"He's going to take a nap with me."

"Not in the bed."

"On the pink chair?"

"Okay."

And that was the last I'd seen or thought of Rocky. Until now. Because now I could see it was Rocky who was currently and inelegantly stuffed into her nasal cavity. I froze. I began speaking in a soothing, deliberate voice, as if negotiating with terrorists.

"Sweetie. I can see there's a rock in your nose. I'm going to reach in V-E-R-Y slowly [demonstrating] and wiggle it out [further demonstrating] like this. Please try not to move at all. Not at ALL."

Thankfully, Rocky came right out. He hadn't really settled in yet, and didn't take a lot of convincing. I breathed a big, noisy breath (I think I'd been holding it for about 30 seconds, envisioning us in the emergency room all evening) and then rushed back to the stove to see about my broccoli. Behind me, Jarrah burst into tears.

"Now, Jarrah," I said. "You're fine. You just had a little fright. I am going to get this under control [twisting burners] and then we're going to have a little conversation."

I picked her up and carried her to the couch, and hugged her until she stopped crying.

"Are you crying because you're embarrassed that you put Rocky up your nose?"

"Nooooo. I'm crying because I'm sad."

"Why are you sad?"

"Because I had a rock up my nose."

"Um, okay. Listen, we have to have a talk. What just happened is a childhood rite of passage. Everybody does it. I had formerly believed that you might be exempt, but now I see that was just rookie foolishness. I'm not mad. But you must never, ever do it again."

"Why?"

"Because next time we might have to spend the night at the hospital, where it's cold and loud and crowded, and we'll be very tired and have to wait a long time. And a doctor will have to work very hard, with a sharp, pointy stick, to get the thing out of your nose."

"So?"

"And there won't be any good snacks there."

"Oh."

"So can I trust you not to put Rocky or anything else up your nose again?"

"Yeah. But why?"

Ah, yes. Another absolute in the recycling bin. "All truths that are evident to me will be evident to my child."

Sure. For about 14 seconds. In our next installment: "Fun with Matches."