Twice, my parents warned my toddler sister and me not to jump on our new beanbag. The third warning was a scolding regarding the value of our squishy gift. Value was a foreign concept, but we understood tone. So, we sat--unsure what we'd done wrong. To us, the shiny, blue beanbag was not a seat; it was a mountain and a lake, and we were mountaineers practicing our cannonballs for the Olympics.

Satisfied by our obedience, Mom and Dad disappeared into the kitchen to slave over dinner. My sister and I shared a look--telecommunication only siblings knew--and together, we summited Mt. Squishy wearing erasable smiles.

Only seconds into our devious diving did our gift burst. The spray of weightless, white Styrofoam floating down like feathers--catching the afternoon sun--created a site most magical. Unfazed by our gift's demise, our inquisitive fingers dove into the gaping seam. They groped at the funny texture within and returned with static-charged beads that clung no matter how violently we wiggled.

We scooped and dumped them on each other's heads--diving caps, of course--then completed a gold-medal-worthy cannonball. Our landing created a glorious splash of foam in which we rolled gleefully.

My sister beamed with satisfaction--her tangled hair reflecting the result of her ambitious training. Our beanbag's contents stuck to her like the alphabet magnets on our refrigerator, and one hung from the tip of her nose--spawning an idea so humorous, I giggled aloud.

"Jessi," I whispered as I plucked the dangler--peeking around the corner to ensure our privacy. "Shoot this--" I clapped my hand to my mouth--eyes tearing with the effort not to burst into laughter. "Shoot this outta' your nose."

Her eyes sparked. Her grin widened as she took the tiny ball, but it faded as she looked at it. Her eyes met mine with confusion.

"I'll help," I said as I snatched the bead back. "Look up."

My innocent sister obliged, and I inserted the bullet flush with the edge of her nostrils.

"Now," I said--pressing against her empty nostril with my finger. "Take a deep breath, and blow."

Oh, how funny this would be! I balled my free fist in anticipation, but she inhaled through her nose, causing the foam to become stuck. The icy surge of panic coursed through my veins as her eyes glossed and lip quivered.

"It's OK... I'll fix it," I said, but the cries of a toddler are not easily hushed, and I received a scolding not easily forgotten.

I learned sticking things in people's noses is bad. I didn't learn anything about sticking things in people's ears, but that's a story for another time.