Is It Safe?

We bowed our heads for the closing prayer, and Ian—being Ian—closed his eyes, reached for his cup, and decided to use the time to finish the milk we’d brought.

(People who bring their venti non-fat, mocha, double-latte, chai frappuccinos into the sanctuary have no excuse. Three year olds have no one to blame but their parents.)

Ian’s lack of attention and poor understanding of gravity means that he still uses a sippy cup if we’re anywhere but the dining room table. And as our pastor began the prayer, Ian started to drink.

Suck. Hisssssssss. Suck. Hissssssssss. Suck. Hissssssssnort!

With each pause, Ian breathed through his nose. With each pause, the hissing became louder and louder. I became self-conscious. God still speaks, but how could we hear him over the slurping and snorting of my son?

It seemed that, over the last week or so, I’d asked Ian to breath through his mouth quite a few times. He’d been hissing a lot lately. He wasn’t sick, but both Kelly and I have allergies; I’ve been sneezing for the past two weeks. Before we left church, I made a mental note: Allergies. Home. Benadryl.

On the way to lunch, I remembered that I’d forgotten the Benadryl.

I was sitting next to Ian, in the backseat, and he started breathing through his nose again. Hisssssss. Hisssssssss. Hisssssssssssss. Oh, come on! Apparently he noticed the problem, because his finger started creeping toward a nostril. I cut him off at the pass, and tilted his head back.

Not to be indiscreet, but his right nostril was at capacity. Ah, ha! Allergies. I grabbed a tissue, and peeked into his left nostril. There it was, big and green. Neon green. Neon? I looked more closely. Bright green, and very big. Wait… I pulled back.

‘Ian,’ I exclaimed, ‘you didn’t!’ Everyone quickly looked at me with puzzled glances. I ignored them; Ian was avoiding my eyes. ‘You did, didn’t you? Why did you do that!’

A very large, very green, very plastic bead. Wedged in my son’s left nostril.

Everyone thought I was joking at first. Ian held his head flat against the seat, chin tucked to his chest, his eyes looking wary. He knew I wasn’t joking.

We stopped at a grocery store for a pair of tweezers. Kelly came in after me, to buy cotton balls. She and her mother had done some quick calculations, and decided that the last time Ian had done any sort of craft involving a bead had been at least—at least— one week ago. That’s a long time to allow a bead to get settled in a three-year-old’s nose.

There can be few images more terrifying to a child than being strapped to a carseat with your father coming at you with tweezers on one side, and your mother with cotton balls on the other.

After much slimy wailing and gnashing of teeth, I extracted the offending bauble. Ian was not happy. Kelly and her mom each held one arm, while I tried to wedge his head against the seat. He just would not hold still. I don’t know if he was scared or in pain (or both); I’m just glad he still knows who I am.

After the fright came Ian’s embarrassment, and he started to cry. Poor kid. How long had he sat with that uncomfortable bit of plastic stuck in his nose? And why didn’t he tell us? Part of me thinks he knows just how stupid it was. Things like this don’t happen by accident.

Apart from being a boy, this was completely out of character for Ian. He just doesn’t put things…anywhere. He’s never chewed things, or played with electrical outlets. He doesn’t get feet or arms or legs stuck anywhere.

We hugged him, told him everything was okay, that it was over.

‘You don’t need to cry, kiddo. But at least now you can breathe if you do!’

So, now he knows. And, lest we forget, a boy is a boy, no matter how well he can sing the alphabet. Parents, remember this: when it comes to your son’s breathing problems, allergies may well be second on the list.