Third Child of Mine

My third child picks his nose with gusto.

He puts his finger up to his nose, glances at me to see if I'm watching. He wants to see if he can make my face twist into a fun mixture of displeasure and humor yet again. He seems to know that no one can simultaneously gross me out and make me laugh like he is about to.

He knows I think this habit is disgusting, and that motivates my blue-eyed, pink-cheeked little devil to push that pointer where it should not go.

And then--when it's shoved in nice and tight--he sneaks a peek my way. He wants to be confident that I don't miss this fine skill of his, of which he thinks he is champion but in fact his big brother and many, many boys (and girls!) before him beat him to the punch. Beat him to their own nostril.

He pulls it out, examines the end to see what's sticking like salty green glue on top. He beams, triumphant! Sometimes at this moment, if I'm sitting close enough I wrestle his hand away, to keep him from completing his task like he wants to. We laugh and play-struggle, with me trying to keep the germs from going right back where they came from, him insisting on recycling every last thing he can.

On this morning as he watches cartoons on a lazy Friday with his big brother and big sister, I'm too far away to pull his hand away. So he licks it like a lollipop, giggling because he can hear me gagging.

Yet again, I'm grossed out and highly entertained by this third child of mine.