I was quite clueless when I had my first child, Sylvie. She taught me about my idiocy by swallowing things that could either be harmful or fatal. Poison Control had a folder on my daughter that listed things like:
· an entire tube of toothpaste
· baby powder (Which I learned is not poisonous, but a choking hazard. Good to know.)
· a capful of floor cleaning liquid (When I yelled at my husband about what I thought she had ingested, he looked at me and said,
“There is no way she drank that. Here let me show you.”)
· a fourth of a bottle of vapor rub
· a buck fifty (She is my own personal savings and loan. The loan officer tends to get messy.)
It got to the point where they called me once a week, just to check on things.
“Hello, Mrs. Rogers. How is Sylvie today?” was the standard greeting I received from whichever Poison Control representative was assigned this task.
“She is doing quite well today. The only thing she has chewed on so far is the coffee table. The last time I called I was told that the varnish on it was probably not harmful in small quantities.”
“Good to hear. I would tell you to be sure to contact us in case of an emergency but I doubt that is worth mentioning. Is the same time next week good for you?”
“We have Mommy and Me class that day. I’m available the next afternoon.”
“I made a note on her file.”
Out of curiosity I ask if it is normal to have a file. I am told it is not. We exchange a few more pleasantries and say our goodbyes. I hang up the phone and squish my daughter’s cheeks together in order to get her latest find out of her mouth.