The Genius and the Pea

When IQs and vegetables collide, one mom’s dreams are dashed

By Marlene Petersen

It began with a news story and ended with a plate of peas. “Next,” said the TV anchor, “a two-year old genius becomes the youngest person ever inducted into Mensa. Could your child be a genius? Find out, coming up.”

Having a two-year old of my own, I watched the report intently, matching the Mensa toddler’s abilities to my daughter’s. By the end of the story, I was convinced Meg was a genius. My pride puffed up like a helium balloon, and I remained in this Homer-Simpson-like delusional state of ignorant bliss until dinner that night. Dinner was nothing special: roasted chicken, rice and peas. My husband and I were busily chatting away about the day’s events and my theory of Meg’s genius when we realized our daughter was unusually quiet.

“What are you doing?” my husband asked Meg. “I’m sticking a pea up my nose,” she replied truthfully, not yet having learned the fine art of the “nothing” reply. “The only place peas go are in your mouth.” “Oh.” “Is that the first pea you tried to put up your nose?” “No. There’s already one in there.” “You’re kidding?” I laughed. “No.” I looked in her right nostril, and, sure enough, there was a small, green pea, resting perfectly inside.

Okay, maybe not a genius. I’ve heard about Albert Einstein failing math, but I’ve never heard that he put a pea in his nose. Somehow exploring one’s orifices with vegetables didn’t seem consistent with genius. I got Meg a tissue and told her to blow really hard. The result: the inhalation that preceded the blowing sucked the pea further back. Time for yet another call to the Mayo Clinic Nurse Line. We’ve called the nurse line so many times that I should add them to my Christmas card list.

It’s not that Meg is sick that often it’s just that I’m a paranoid first-time parent who calls at the first sign of any new bump, rash or spot, like the time I was convinced Meg had a debilitating virus that turned out to be heat rash. “It’s okay, Mrs. Petersen,” the nurse said, “Meg isn’t the first child to put something in her nose. We’ve seen peas, beans, toys. Actually, the worst case I ever saw was when a boy had put a piece of corn in his ear and no one noticed until it began to sprout.” Comforting. “So what should I do?” “Have you tried blowing her nose?” “Yes, that made it worse.” “Well, you’ll probably have to bring her to the emergency room tonight or the doctor’s office in the morning.” An hour later, I was finally convinced it would be okay to delay extraction until morning and let our daughter sleep.

“So I hear you have a pea in your nose, Meg,” the doctor said sweetly the next morning. Meg nodded. “We are going to use a special tool and scoop it out so that it doesn’t make you sick, okay?” I’m not sure which part surprised me more that they had a tool for this situation (how many vegetables did they extract on a daily basis?) or that the “tool” looked like a Tupperware® orange peeler circa 1975. “Good news,” the nurse said 30 seconds later, holding up the bright green pea. “It’s the same color as when it went in.” With the pea safely in the trash, my daughter and I paid the doctor and went to Cold Stone Creamery to split a scoop of chocolate ice cream. So, I guess until I find out that a two-year-old Albert Einstein put a lima bean in his belly button, Meg’s application to Mensa will have to wait.

Marlene Petersen is a freelance writer who is perpetually awe-struck by the antics of her now three-year-old daughter.