My Nose Are Runnin'

So... we have snot. Drippy, watery, streaming, spoil-my-enjoyment-of-the-spring-weather booger juice. "You do not seem ill," you may surmise. And you would be quite correct. However, when you are three, even the slightest of ailments cannot be borne alone, and I have been invited along as the guest of honor to pull his highness's Kleenex's from the box and gently squeeze the mucous from his crusty little nose. A privilege that begins with a not-so-sweet directive ("MOMMMMMMMYYYY!! MY NOSE ARE RUNNIN'!!") and ends abruptly absent a "thank you". It appears the prince feels snot is "yucky" and is therefore unwilling to touch any, albeit his own.

I graciously accept this esteemed position, and as evidence of my gratitude I wish to thank the following:

Thank you pollen for blowing yourself around our yard and up Toby's nostrils so that he and I can enjoy the subsequent sneeze-a-thon.

Thank you Kleenex for folding your product so efficiently into the box that my son's chubby little fingers are unable to remove you without my assistance.

Thank you baby Charlie for your superior ability in outshining your brother and removing more than half of the Kleenex's without struggle before rendering them useless with your ample drool.

And last, I would like to thank antihistamines everywhere for never making Toby the least bit drowsy but giving him the extra umph he needs to stalk me from room to room all day.

At the risk of sounding unappreciative, is it unreasonable to expect even a teensy weensy bit, just a smidge really, of autonomy from a boy who can touch a warty frog, stand barefoot on a public restroom floor, and eat green beans dipped in ketchup and ranch dressing mixed together without even the slightest hesitation? Am I asking too much??