Where's the button?
“I’ve got a button stuck up my nose.”
“You’ve got a button stuck up your nose?”
She nods and thrusts a finger up her right nostril. “I can’t get it out.”
I sigh. This is the second time Meg’s climbed out of bed since we thought we’d settled her down for the night over an hour ago. The first time was to complain that a button had come off her pyjamas. “Come here and let me take a look.”
Personally, I’m sceptical: Meg’s nose is quite small and the remaining buttons on her jammies look too big to fit up there. She’s also got a heavy cold at the moment and a fair amount of mucus emanating from her nasal passages.
“What’s going on?” asks Maggie as she sees me kneeling in the hallway, tilting Meg’s head back and turning it to the left and right in an attempt to shed more light on the matter.
“She says she’s got a button stuck up her nose, but I can’t see anything.” I’m about to squeeze the outside of Meg’s nose to see if I can feel it, then realise if a button is up there, this action would be extremely painful.
Maggie rolls her eyes then disappears for a moment and returns with a handful of paper towels. “She’s probably just dreamt it. Come here Meg; let’s blow your nose.”
As Meg snorts into the hankies, I begin to head back to the computer. I’m stopped in my tracks, however, when Maggie suddenly says, “Oh my God, she was right!” I swivel round and sure enough there’s a wee pink button protruding from the snot-filled sheet of paper in Maggie’s hand.
“Does that feel better sweetie?” asks Maggie and gives Meg a hug. Meg nods and is happily led back to bed.
It’s at times like this when I realise that if anyone was to try and write a definitive parenting manual to cover every eventuality, it would require a building the size of a small city to house all the volumes.
“You’ve got a button stuck up your nose?”
She nods and thrusts a finger up her right nostril. “I can’t get it out.”
I sigh. This is the second time Meg’s climbed out of bed since we thought we’d settled her down for the night over an hour ago. The first time was to complain that a button had come off her pyjamas. “Come here and let me take a look.”
Personally, I’m sceptical: Meg’s nose is quite small and the remaining buttons on her jammies look too big to fit up there. She’s also got a heavy cold at the moment and a fair amount of mucus emanating from her nasal passages.
“What’s going on?” asks Maggie as she sees me kneeling in the hallway, tilting Meg’s head back and turning it to the left and right in an attempt to shed more light on the matter.
“She says she’s got a button stuck up her nose, but I can’t see anything.” I’m about to squeeze the outside of Meg’s nose to see if I can feel it, then realise if a button is up there, this action would be extremely painful.
Maggie rolls her eyes then disappears for a moment and returns with a handful of paper towels. “She’s probably just dreamt it. Come here Meg; let’s blow your nose.”
As Meg snorts into the hankies, I begin to head back to the computer. I’m stopped in my tracks, however, when Maggie suddenly says, “Oh my God, she was right!” I swivel round and sure enough there’s a wee pink button protruding from the snot-filled sheet of paper in Maggie’s hand.
“Does that feel better sweetie?” asks Maggie and gives Meg a hug. Meg nods and is happily led back to bed.
It’s at times like this when I realise that if anyone was to try and write a definitive parenting manual to cover every eventuality, it would require a building the size of a small city to house all the volumes.
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