I almost forgot this one, so before I do:
Iyyar had a cold over Pesach, complete with abundantly runny nose. It ran so often and so fulsomely that he did not object to nose-wiping, but, on the other hand, he did not have any inclination to stop what he was doing to go wipe his nose himself on, say, a tissue. Too much trouble, you see. The result of this was layer upon shiny layer of snot on both forearms of all his shirts, deposited before he'd even finished with breakfast, and me chasing him, mostly futilely, with Kleenex for much of our stay.
Usually he'd get to his nose with his sleeve long before I got near him with the tissue. Sometimes, though, it was close. And on one memorable occasion, as I reached toward him, tissue in hand, to stem the tide, he looked right at me and held up his hands in the manner of someone about to graciously and generously, with great self-sacrifice, save another the trouble of a particularly distasteful task. Hands out, shoulders up, head a little back:
"It's okay, Imma. It's okay. I just gonna use my sleeve."
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