I came upon the idea for this post while reading another blog, Snarky Mommy. And, even though I have not had to call poison control in some time, this is the kind of crazy I live with on a daily basis, so I thought I would share.
As a renowned Child Development person (HA!), I am somewhat embarrassed to say that I have called poison control 3 times.
I am not sure how many I could/should have called, but officially, it is 3.
The first time, my son got into some amber resin.
I spent much of my teen and college years working for health food stores. And, I established good relationships with many of the wonderful hippies I worked with, and the hippie customers, too. At one transition in my life, I was moving on, and a regular customer that had grown fond of me had presented me with a small ornate wooden box with beautiful carvings in the top. The box was filled with amber resin, which smells wonderful. Over the years, this little treasure has moved with me.
Fast-forward to parenthood. I am living with my little family, working at my home day care, with my young son. He is 1 and a half, and very curious.
One day, he comes out, upset. He has something yucky in his mouth, and he has developed a rash. For some reason, there is a smell that rings a faint bell. As I get closer, I recognize the smell, and we walk into my bedroom, where the lid of the amber resin box is laying (lying?) on the floor. I quickly realize that MB has eaten some amber.
I look up the number to poison control in the phone book (it's this ancient book, filled only with people's names and phone numbers. And, a listing of all our governmental officials. Strange, I know.) and give them a call. The first thing they want to know is my phone number. This is how they keep track of calls. My paranoid mind goes to, "enough calls and they will come and strip you of your parently duties". So, I reluctantly give it, and go through the process of them trying to figure out what the hell he ate, and whether he will die.
About 15 minutes into it, we mutually decide it is classified as incense, and we move on, accepting he will not die from it.
Call #2. I am currently running an in-home daycare, and it is about 10 AM. I have 4 children in my home, one of them the infamous Monkey Boy. (Who senses a theme?) My son, the acrobat, has climbed inside the TV cabinet (back when TVs were big and heavy, and required a piece of furniture to hold them, along with all their debris). He has grabbed my new air freshener, the kind that you walk by and push the top on to release a blast of springtime freshness. (It has since been discontinued, and if it was due in part to my call, I formally apologize to the company) Well, apparently, when you hold it in your pudgy toddler hands to look at it, your chubby little pointer finger fits perfectly on the "launch" button. Which seems perfect, since he launched the biggest scream fit I have ever seen.
And, the rash left a perfect ring around his eye. Way to go, chemical company, for expressing a perfect circular ring of air heaven. In his eye.
Poison control told me to flush his eye with cool water. And, at the last First Aid class, I was told that, when you have to flush an eye, to call 9-1-1 to get assistance, because it is impossible to do alone. Well, I weighed the pros and cons of the fire truck, along with the stress to the other kids, and the bad PR. I then called a friend who was a fire fighter, and he talked me through it.
It is NOT impossible to rinse an eye of a toddler alone. I don't recommend it in public though, as it does look quite violent-me straddling his little body, his hands under my knees (gently, mind you-I'm no sadist), one arm around his head prying his eye open while the other pours a steady stream of cool water into the burning eye.
*Donations to his therapy fund will be accepted by PayPal.*
Thankfully, I changed phone numbers somewhere in here, because my relationship with Poison Control was not over.
Then, Princess came along. She was curious, too. Just not a climber. Phew-while I was resting on my laurels, she was exploring the doors that were not closed. Like the bathroom. (Did I mention that each time my son used the toilet, he was remiss in flushing? No matter what manner of filth came out of him?) So, there I am, walking down the hall, and I find my little angel sitting in the hall. At first, I think she has been painted by her brother. Then, I think, maybe she got into some chocolate. Then it hits me.
After fighting back the gagging, I managed to get her clean, get the bathroom clean, get the carpets clean. A stern lecture to the son, a warning to EVERYONE not to kiss Princess in the foreseeable future, and my (hopefully) last call to Poison Control.
Did you know LOTS of children eat poo in their toddler years? The difference (which made the poison control dude gag a bit) in my case is that most toddlers get into their own diapers. NOT the toilet, after their soon-to-be-yelled-at brother filled it to capacity.
Did you know that the e-coli in a person's colon is most likely the same as the e-coli in a close relative living with you? I didn't, either! The good news is, this meant that she would most likely not die from her escapade.
Did you know that what I now lovingly refer to as re-fried poo is exponentially worse the next cycle through?
Did you know that it also multiplies in volume the next "go round"?
Did you know that the taste is NOT a deterrent to toddlers?
* Donations to her therapy fund will be accepted by PayPal.*
See, now you can tell your boss that you were researching little-known poo facts and incense digestibility when you were supposed to be working.