Tuesday, December 07, 2004

Do As I Say, Not As I Pick

I told my son to stop picking his nose this morning and the irony of the admonition struck me immediately. He’s only engaging in the behaviors his old man has modeled for him. We can only hope that McGriddle addiction and perpetual flatulence don’t follow.

In my own defense, I believe there is a significant difference between my nose picking and my son’s. Mine serves a specific purpose: the extraction of crusted obstructions that threaten to interfere with my breathing, my comfort and my ability to carry out a conversation with my boss without him becoming completely distracted by the whistling of my nose. Also, as noted a few days ago, boogers are an excellent weapon against n’er-do-well teenage girls on the highways and byways of America.

Conversely, my son’s nose picking seems less about a specific goal than about a pastime. To him, having the first two knuckles of his index finger in his nose is comfort, like sucking a thumb or rocking back and forth or copping a touch-buzz from a favorite blanket. It’s not as though he’s paying conscious attention to what he’s doing. His focus is solely on the television screen or the book we’re reading, and I believe strongly that he has no idea that he is tickling the inside of his nose and on occasion removing the finger, rolling something between his thumb and index finger and flicking it in the general direction of his little sister. He’s in some kind of weird nose-picking trance, kind of like a cobra under the spell of a snake charmer.

I would like to believe that this is standard four-year-old behavior, but I’m not that dim. I know that my son sees me digging for gold on my own nose on a regular basis – especially if we’re driving somewhere – and he has come to believe that this is what men do. We watch sports, we say “dude” before or after each sentence, we drink large quantities of soft drinks, and we pick our noses. We’re men, and this is what men do.

I believe it is now incumbent upon me to right this wrong, to model more appropriate mucous-related behaviors for my son, lest he eliminate the possibility of ever finding true love because no woman will ever want to go to the prom with a boy who picks his nose during fifth period chemistry class. So today I will go to the supermarket and, horror of all horrors, I will buy a package of Kleenex, take it home, and show my son how to blow his nose like a gentleman.

Twenty bucks says the kid eventually teaches himself to wrap a Kleenex around his index finger and pick his nose with it.


At 12:19 PM, Blogger Pamalamadingdong said...


At 2:15 PM, Blogger sevans said...

You are an exceptional writer, no doubt, but can I please read about a different subject matter?

At 3:45 PM, Blogger Jacqueline said...

Hey...I like the booger stories...a bit gross, but always very entertaining.

At 6:16 AM, Blogger honestyrain said...

snot again. ahhhh, snot.

when you're teaching your son how to properly usitilize a Kleenex for the purpose of ridding himself of SNOT please allow my Dearest Husband to attend the class. he is without clue as to the proper method and i am weary of it.

this is assuming you know how to teach the propr use of a Kleenex. perhaps mrs. evans can report back as to your technique before i sign Husband up. i trust her judgement in this matter entirely.

At 12:32 PM, Blogger annette said...

You got that right!

At 7:16 PM, Blogger HDawg said...

danny i am assuming all your digging-for-gold stories are just that---STORIES--so we can come and visit you in a few weeks and i don't have to surreptitiously monitor your activities out of the corner of my eye---at least i have a couple weeks to erase the mental picture i have formed!!! arrgh!
lovin' the writing, man. keep up the good work!

At 8:12 AM, Blogger LadyBug said...

Hey there Dr. Fever! Found your site through your comment at Dooce. Very funny stuff!

One question, though:
Have you considered the possibility that your perpetual flatulence may somehow be related to your McGriddle addiction?
I'm just sayin'...

God bless,


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