Last night when I went to Nigel’s room to say goodnight to him, I noticed that he had dried blood smeared on his cheeks. “Did you have a bloody nose?” I asked. “Yes,” he said with nonchalance. “I took care of it.”

That’s what I was afraid of.

During warmer weather, Nigel gets bloody noses as often as once or twice a week. This has not been a lifelong occurrence, fortunately; it’s only been for the last few years. He doesn’t seem bothered by them, but he insists on handling them himself. Meaning, he doesn’t tell me until after the fact. Or he doesn’t tell me at all, and I happen to discover it.

I went to the bathroom and it looked like someone had been murdered in there. Drops of blood splattered up to the ceiling, blood was smeared all over the mirror, sink, and floor, blood-soaked tissues filled the trashcan and spilled onto the floor, and wadded up towels encrusted with blood were wedged into the space between the towel bar and the wall. How on earth is this level of carnage caused by a simple bloody nose?

I know I need to teach him to clean it up, but it is late, I am sick with the flu, and I decide to deal with it tomorrow. I go to bed wondering why he does this with his blood. I’ve read articles written by parents whose autistic children handle their feces this way, and so I’m glad that it’s blood, and I’m glad it’s usually confined to the bathroom (the living room couch was stained once or twice). But why does he do it?

I think blood fascinates him. During one of his bloody noses last year, Nigel stuck a small test tube up his nostril in an effort to collect his blood (and he was successful, apart from the mess). He said he wanted to test his DNA. For what, I have no clue. He was going through a Hulk movie-watching phase, watching the DVD every day for a week, so the test tube incident might have been motivated by that. Maybe he figures if he has such a profuse amount of blood on hand, he might as well do something with it.

I need to buy stock in Spray ‘n Wash, considering the amount of Stain Sticks that I go through, what with the bloody towels, clothes, and couch. Such is my life. With that sense of resignation, I took some Nyquil and crawled into bed. I slept well, random dreams of blood splatters notwithstanding. I got up late this morning and, noting the empty house, remembered that the boys’ dad was taking them river rafting today. I still felt weak with flu as I trudged passed the bathroom and peeked in. It was clean.

Most likely, their father had cleaned it, even though he doesn’t live here. But he knew I was sick, so that was thoughtful of him. I still need to teach Nigel how to clean up his own bloody-nose carnage, but there will be plenty of other opportunities for that, I’m sure. For now, I better get out the Stain Stick. The towels got it pretty bad this time.