I nose what you mean

I was 12, wearing my dad’s sweatshirt, arms hugging my legs, knees pulled in tight to my chest, rocking on a chair in the living room.  My momentum crossed the balance threshold and I found myself facedown on the tile floor.  That was the first time that I broke my nose.

There have been 3 more incidents, the most recent being courtesy of a 2-year old Sadie, who pitched herself forward as I held her by her knees.  Her forehead met the bridge of my nose and the blood flowed.

I thought Team Sublett might be out of the danger zone, but I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Last night’s sledding brought a bounty of broken noses.  Sadie smacked her nose on the crusty ice, resulting in what I believe to be a busted proboscis.  Levi went careening down the hill only to meet the business-end of a bush.  His nose is crooked now, but the bush lost a branch.

When I was 23 my nose ran into the elbow of a right-fielder as we both chased a pop fly. As I made my way back to the dugout, my nose now blatantly sloping off the side of my face, a nurse scampered over to consult.  I figured to head to the ER, but she countered that all I’d get for my trouble was a long wait before a doc roughly snapped my nose back into place.  She suggested that I pop that sucker back into place myself, saving me a long wait.  So I did just that–pressed my palms against the out-of-place sniffer and relocating it back to it’s normal resting place.  With a resounding POP, everything went a little blinky for a minute or so.  I stayed in the game, and collected another 2 hits before all was said and done!

I tried to pop Levi’s nose back into place tonight, but there was no popping going on. We’re a terrible bunch of busted up noses…