Oh, remember when I confessed that I have a chronic nose picker over here?
I know what you were thinking: "There she goes again; taking creative license with all of those 'facts' of life." (If Natalie or "Tootie" didn't just traverse your consciousness, you are too young to be reading this blog.)
Sure, I take liberties with my adjectives, but the facts are the facts.
I call it creative packaging of the truth with lots of histrionic ribbon.
Felix has refrained from snacking on his own nare waste, and I felt that much like the cannibalism, we have been in the clear with the nose diving.
I know, right?
I thought the same thing when I found him like this: he's either back to cannibalism, or picked his nose so hard it bled--again.
Thankfully (?) it was the latter.
Yeah, so I took the boys on my traditional evening slog with the double stroller.
We talk about street names. We talk about Willy Wonka. We talk about quantum physics.
I know when we walk by people they are like "noise pollution!" as the boys and I tend to get really loud when Oompa Loompas are mentioned.
Tonight, I got a lot of extra looks.
Maybe it was my description of the ever-lasting-gobstopper? Or my terrible Veruca Salt impersonation.
It was the fact that my child was hemorrhaging from his nose for 45 minutes and I had no idea.
In all fairness, neither of the boys mentioned the blood bath during our slog.
In true Felix fashion, when I noticed the scene of the crime as we got home and screamed "Felix! You picked your nose so hard you have blood all over your face!"
Hi responded with a cool, "Yum! I eat boogies!" And then took a scoop of his blood/boogie slurry and ate it.
He does need more iron...
(Yes, I took this picture before I cleaned him up, obviously. He wasn't distressed, and I needed to show Eric what he was missing tonight; ie, dessert.)