Hey, Kids: For The Love Of God, Use a Damn Tissue!

Don’t laugh, I have a serious question…

*backspace backspace backspace*

This is weird but does anybody know how to…

*backspace backspace backspace*

I could hardly bring myself to type the words. I was in desperate need of advice, but asking for it on a wide-open platform like Facebook was essentially admitting my problem to the world. Did I really want anyone to know? Was I ready to be that honest? What kind of judgment would I face from the other parents, whose kids, they’d inevitably say, “would never?”

It had to be done. I needed answers. Fingers poised once again over the keys, I slowly but resolutely typed the question.

How do you get dried boogers off walls?

Almost instantly, the comments started rolling in, and I braced myself for an onslaught of “WTF”s and “LOL”s. But to my surprise, dried boogers are apparently a highly relatable topic, at least among parents. “Rehydrate them with a warm washcloth!” suggested one person. “My husband just paints over them,” admitted another. “Following…for a friend,” someone else chimed in. I felt a rush of relief, knowing I’m not the only one who lives in a world where petrified booger removal is actually a thing that I have to do.

I never fantasized about living a life that involved scrubbing nuggets of nostril-poop off my walls, but here I am, thanks to my children’s mysterious inability to locate a tissue. It doesn’t matter that there are boxes of them placed strategically every few feet throughout the house. It doesn’t matter that our family is probably singlehandedly supporting the president of Puffs Plus and the CEO of Kleenex. It doesn’t matter that I carry travel packs of them in my purse and stuff them in my coat pockets until my hips look huge (Yeah, that’s it. It’s the tissues).

The same kids who will literally run laps around the house and bounce up and down while they carry on a normal conversation are, for some reason, too lazy to seek out a proper receptacle from the amplitude of mucus disposal products available to them. Instead, they wipe that shit on the nearest wall, and this booger-buffing mama is having to resort to seeking advice on Facebook? A big pish-posh to that, Sir. I do not have the time.

Sadly, I’m not sure all the time in the world would remedy this situation. If someone ever wanted an indestructible building material or an all-natural permanent adhesive, they need look no further than dehydrated mucus, which I’m fairly certain could withstand an apocalyptic crisis. The “magic” of those cleaning sponges disappears — poof! — as the booger crumbles them into oblivion, like cheese against a grater.

They withstand the harshest of household cleaners, the scratchiest of scrubbers. And simply attempting to pick or scratch off a booger-barnacle is just begging for a big chip in your paint job. I’m pretty sure you could take a portable sander and damage a 2-foot section of wall, and there’d still be the tiny booger, stuck to the ruins in all its imperishable glory. They’re like icebergs: They might look innocent enough, but we all know what happened to the Titanic.

Worst of all, I have yet to catch the nose-mining miscreant in the act of decking the walls. I don’t know if it’s all four of my kids, or a couple of them, or one single extra-boogery culprit. But mark my words: Just like they mark my paint. When I find the responsible party, I’m going to make him walk around with tissues corkscrewed firmly into each nostril until he learns where to put the contents.

Flush ‘em. Go out and find a leaf. Wipe ‘em on a sleeve if that’s what it comes to — where at least the washing machine can take care of their disgusting removal and the clothes look good as new afterward, unlike the snot-scarred walls. Or here’s a novel idea: Put them in the tissues that I so conveniently leave everyfuckingwhere.

I may buy the decorative boxes with the pretty patterns, buddy, but they sure as hell aren’t there for their aesthetic appeal.