eight years ago, and after much contemplation, i slipped away from the house on a saturday and went alone to a nearby tattoo parlor to get my nosed pierced. my reasoning was informed, in part, by my own self-perception and my assumptions about how others perceived me, even as i knew that my accuracy on both accounts was probably questionable. but i was in the process of entering the ministry, a vocation that includes hazards such as inevitable affiliation with the church, an institution that simultaneously surprises me with goodness and makes me want to rip my hair out. in the deep south, surrounded by bible thumpers and those still reeling from subjection to this thumping, i was afraid to let my label as a minister define me. i wanted for people to look at my face — my nose, specifically — and think, “she’s not your ordinary minister.” i can’t say that the nosering has rescued me from eight years of stereotypes, as planned. what i know for sure is that i just like it.

the reaction to my new facial addition varied. my in-laws called me dennis rodman, which in my opinion, was hilarious! a friend cautiously asked me if i would still be wearing it once i became a mother. i answered her with an enthusiastic yes. the prospect of being a mom with a nose ring thrilled me almost as much as being a minister with a nosering.

but little did i know then that one day (in december of ’09, to be exact), my youngest child would close in on my face for a gummy-mouthed kiss and EAT my nosering. when my friend asked me if i would be a “nosering mama,” i did not forsee that such a designation would lead to utterances such as,

“hello… laurelwood pediatrics… we’ve got a bit of a problem here. you see, the bird has consumed a piece of facial jewelry.”

but eight years into this commitment, i pressed on. i never again saw that particular custom-made nosering, despite my best archaeological efforts. i resigned myself to wearing the cheap mall boutique noserings that lose their “stones” every two weeks. and then, as luck would have it, my friend and yoga teacher, margot, heard the “bird ate my nosering” story at a party and offered me her retired piece of bling — a beautiful rose gold beveled stud, custom made by the same jeweler who made my old one.

she gave it to me last night, and the new ring fits tightly, so as not to be gobbled up in fits of toddler affection.

the moral of the story is this: if you’re going to be a “nosering mama,” you’re going to have to babyproof your face.