Tonight, while laying stretched out on the couch, with a blanket over my legs, I was watching my soon-to-be ex-wife eating applesauce with my son.
Jake would take the spoon in his hand, and dip it into the sauce. Carefully, watching every move, he would raise it to his mouth. As toddlers do, he would end up with his hand bent in some odd angle startlingly reminiscent of Joe Theismann about half the time.
At one point, I chuckled a little at this, seeing his open his mouth wide, as well as his eyes, for you see, wide open eyes makes the food go in easier.
Jake spotted me, and filled his spoon. He came walking over to me, because Jake has been taught to share. He’s applied that to his food now, you know. I smiled at him, and he smiled back. I opened my mouth, grinning hard enough to squinch my eyes mostly shut.
Jake, my little buddy, then proceded to shove the spoon directly up ny left nostril, twisting as he went.
My nose has been broken. A lot of times. When I sat up in horror, at the cold, mushy, auger entering my sinus cavity, Jake didn’t let go. NAY, he laughed at my pain, in that fiendish “I’m BAD” tone that only an infant can get away with.
I’ve been blowing my nose for half an hour. My brain is cold. My nostril feels like it’s been raped by, well, a spoon.
Once Jake’s in bed, I’m getting drunk, and trying to forget this.
Boy, do I love that kid.
Now, I’m gouting blood from my nose
