“My nose hurts.” 

As soon as I hear this, I know what it means.  “My nose hurts” is DragonMonkey-code for “I have to blow my nose.”

Don’t ask me how he came up with it – we call oatmeal “nonope”, marshmallows “funfellows”, and “my nose hurts” means “I have a booger.”

Sighing, I turn off the kitchen sink and leave the dishes half-done, wiping my soapy hands on my jeans before grabbing a tissue.

I arrive in the living room just in time to see the DragonMonkey standing there, head tilted awkwardly to the side, staring curiously at a giant booger that he’s dangling from his finger an inch in front of his eyes.

“Eww, give me that.” I reach out with my tissue to take it from him.

“NO! DON’T LOOK!  IT’S NOT YOURS!  DON’T TOUCH!”  He snatches his hand away from in front of him,  cradling it protectively against chest, looking at the tissue in my hand in horror.

“DON’T LOOK AT IT!  IT’S MINE!”  Hand still held tight against his chest he darts around the corner, and by the time I follow him around it at my much more leisurely pace, he is sauntering back, back ramrod straight, chin set defiantly.

There is no sign of the booger.

And no matter how much I threaten, or speak sternly, or stand him in the corner, he refuses to tell me where it is.  It’s his booger.  Not mine.  I’m not allowed to touch it.

So, my apologies.  If you ever come visit me and you find a crusty, dried booger somewhere in the vicinity of the guest bathroom, I apologize.

Also, please don’t touch it.  Or look at it.  It’s not yours.