I grew up in the country. Utterly rural. If I wanted to go
to a tractor pull, I had opportunities. If I wished to tip a cow, chances
abounded. One aspect of country life of which I never took advantage is the
greased pig contest. —
For anyone who’s unfamiliar with the concept, allow me to
summarize: At a county fair (or equivalent event), a young person is put in a
corral with a small pig which has been literally covered in grease. The kid
chases the pig around and tries to catch it. No mean feat even with a
greaseless pig; made nigh-impossible by adding that layer of slipperiness.
I’m finding now that it might have been wise for me to take
advantage of my proximity to such events, as it might have been a very useful
experience to have under my belt this week, when my son is suffering from the
worst cold he’s ever had.
It’s not the worst cold of all time. There’s minimal
sneezing. His coughing hasn’t reached tubercular proportions or anything. But
his sinuses are producing enough snot to fill a five-gallon bucket daily.
Which means he’s got a sore nose. Which means the snot is
irritating his facial skin even more. Which means he’s super-resistant to my
attempts to wipe his nose.
He’s three now, so he’s not too bad at fetching his own
tissue, giving his shnoz a quick dab and even disposing of the used Kleenex in
the trash. But sometimes he’s too distracted to be thorough. Sometimes his
technique is lacking. And sometimes he just plain doesn’t notice.
This means that he sometimes has a giant snot bubble, just
waiting to burst. It also means that he frequently manages to do little more
than to smear the snot into a thin film, which then turns to a greenish crust
on his cheek.
He’s often pretty good about letting me help him. But not always.
And that’s when the whole greased pig analogy comes into
play. Y’ever try wiping the nose of someone who really, really, really doesn’t
want their nose wiped? Someone who whips his face back and forth like a
spectator at the world’s fastest tennis game? Someone who will run screaming
down the hall if you so much as come near him with a damp washcloth?
It ain’t easy, people.
And so I’m sometimes left with the choice of whether to hold
him, screaming, in a vise grip while I try to gently de-snot his face or to let
him go and chisel the crust off his face later. Generally, I go for the vise
grip.
Here’s hoping he doesn’t wake up screaming at age 27,
drenched in sweat and cowering in memory of his father coming at him with a
moist towelette.
Joe Wack currently
teaches science to elementary school children in the Bronx. He lives in Harlem with his wife and 3-year-old son.
For more on Joe, see our contributors list to the right.
