There Are Limits
George approaches me, his little face tipped up, blue eyes wide under his dirty blond flip of hair. (My kids, incidentally, call that upswept bangs thing a 'whoop'.) "Mary, I got boogers." Not one of my favourite things to hear, but I am, as I've said before, A Professional. "All right, my dear. Here's a kleenex. Blow." George performs an exceedingly ineffectual little puff, which I suspect came out his mouth, anyway. He confirms its inefficacy when he says, "They're still in there." "Well, George, you blew and they didn't come out. I think that's all we can do about it." "No-oo!" he is insistent, perhaps even a little indignant. "You gots to get it." I give him a look, let a beat go by so he'll understand that what I'm about to say is a complete and absolute non-negotiable. "George? George, I don't pick noses."