As all young boys must, Miles is going through the “booger obsession” phase of childhood. If you’re ever looking for his index finger, the first place I’d check is deep within his nostril.
Despite this action being a firmly-ingrained byproduct of centuries of human evolution, Jaclyn and I still raise a stink every time we look over and find Miles digging for that proverbial gold. As he was going to bed last night, Miles once again crammed his finger into the deepest corners of his nasal passage. Within seconds he withdrew, a juicy little glob stuck to his fingertip.
“Ugh, Miles!” I said, rising from the bed. “I’m going to get you a tissue.”
I returned within seconds, but when I asked Miles for his finger, he simply said, “I already cleaned it.” Then, to further clarify/torment me, “With my tongue. I ate the booger.”
I groaned, “Miles, don’t do that…”
“I only ate ONE.”
I rolled my eyes and shook my head.
“It was a good one,” he added.
The Perils (& Pride) of Paternity 