Poop Patrol

As the mother of four, I pretty much feel like I've seen it all.  My kids are weird.  I accept that.  Even adore it.

The Oldest has done everything from super gluing his mouth shut to getting a cellulitis in his foot from a TOOTHPICK to creating a character named "Count Buttula" for his numerous bandage changes from his surgery (complete with accent).  The Middle Son has de-pants-ed (sp?) The Oldest in the middle of Dollar General, in front of about 30 other shoppers, and hacked Disney's website, by age 10.  Mini-Me has painted hardwood floors bright red and worn 3 shirts at once because she couldn't decide on what to wear.

And then there's The Youngest Boy.  He's the most creative when it comes to mischief.  And when he does something - he REALLY does it.  Slid on a book once resulting in 10 stitches and a broken jaw.  Learned beatboxing when he was 3.  Tripped over his Woody Talk doll and managed to force his tooth through his cheek.  For the most part, I don't really get rattled anymore when there's a scream, crash, or phone call from the school.  So, of course, there had to be something to throw me off of my 17 year Mom game, and The Youngest Boy was the one to do it.  

Yesterday, he came home from school with prizes from phys ed class.  He'd ran more laps around the track or something.  He got these 2, small, 1/4 inch thick, 1/2 inch tall, plastic charms.  One was a blue school house (which I joked was the Tardis) and the other was a fluorescent yellow apple.  He was very proud.  He placed them on the coffee table, next to his milk.  (can you see where this is going?  BECAUSE I DIDN'T)  The phone rings, it's my sister, we start our usual conversations.  A few minutes later, he starts lightly panicking.  I divert my attention from the call to the child with the freaked out look on his face.  This is when he informs me that he accidentally swallowed the apple charm.

By accident.

He was reaching for his drink, when he mistakenly picked up the charm from the table, and ACCIDENTALLY SWALLOWED IT.

Yes.

That's what he tells me.

Seriously.

Um.

W.  T.  F.

While the majority of me is confused, the other part of me is worried.  You see, my kids haven't ever swallowed foreign objects before today.  None of them.  Boogers, cat food, latex paint, super glue, a Skittle from the Orchestra room floor- yes, toys- no.   So, I'm not really sure how to proceed here.  My sister is a medical assistant, so I ask her if this warrants an E.R. visit.  I mean, it's been a few months since our last trip.  It'd be nice to know if they have any new flavors in the slushy machine.  She wasn't sure.  I decided I'd just call the pediatrician.  He's not choking or anything.  Just a little weirded out.

The pediatrician is on my "Favorite" list on my iPhone, for obvious reasons.  I already know to press 5 for the nurse.  And I'm on hold for a few minutes.  About 5 minutes later I'm explaining this story to a sweet, young nurse.  She decides to consult one of the doctors due to the size of the toy.  Several minutes later, she's explaining what to do from here.  Something about 2 weeks, watch his bowel movements, keep an eye on stomach pains, yadda yadda yadda....

Then it happens.

He starts coughing.  His face reddens.  His eyes are bulging.  He's grabbing his throat.  He's garbling "It's.................. coming................... back .............. up....."  The nurse on the other end starts to flip.  I was preparing for CPR.  She frantically asks me if I need for her to call 9-1-1.  I'm trying to keep a cool head in case I need to save his life - or catch as the toy projectiles from his face.  And then....

Then....

THEN HE PROCEEDS TO LAUGH.  He was kidding about the choking. 

Give the kid an Oscar.

Of course I got off of the phone prior to beating him but those were a close few seconds.

I've been sentenced to 2 weeks of Doody Inspection.  I'm going to make a badge to wear for it.  Then keep it in a box with the Mowing Tiara and my Mother of the Year awards.

I Can Get You A Thumb By 3 o'clock. With Polish.

Part of accepting maturity is delaying gratification.  Tuesday night, I let me "T" take the wheel (that's a United States of Tara reference).  I had some extra money burning a hole in my pocket.  And I saw that Bath and Body Works was having a sale on hand soap and body wash.  Sure, I had hand soap.  But it wasn't some overpriced, over scented, migraine inducing, obnoxious aroma.  It was some plain ole Dial.  Ok - it was Cherry Blossom.  But it didn't come out in a foam.  I just (almost) finished decorating one of my bathrooms and I wanted it to look perfect.  Only B&BW soaps are going to be the perfect accessory. Sure, I have body wash too.  But, again, it's falls into the same category as the Dial.

So at 7:45 p.m. Mini-Me woke up from her nap and I decided to just run up really quick.  I packed little Q up and headed out the door.  We got to the store about 10 minutes later.  We entered and my baby girl was in awe.  This whole "girl" thing is still a wonder to me.  I know she's 1 1/2 but it is still a very large adjustment from the 3 boys.  I have a new found appreciation for girly things.  Seeing her little face light up when she sees something feminine!  Don't get me wrong, she has an incredible fondness for the boys' things too.  But she loves purses and "lip gloss" (read: an empty tube of  Chap Stick).  So as we are perusing the shelves and bins, we come across this ADORABLE little compact.  It was a small, bright yellow smiley face with a big red bow on it's head with a red rhinestone in the center of the bow that slid open and closed.  A toothy smile drew across her face, her legs kicked in excitement.  She giggled when she saw the pretty baby in the mirror. I melted.  Of course, it was hers.  She could put it in her little purse!  Maybe it was a combination of the toxic levels of perfumed potions mixed with the bright, flashy packaging and some spritz girl chasing me around with some "Island" scent - I didn't think. 

We finalized our purchase and the compact didn't leave her grasp the whole ride home.  As soon as we came in - She showed her prize off to her brothers and placed it into her purse.  She would pull it out every so often and smile at the baby smiling at her.  Wednesday morning, I told my Heterosexual Life Partner about it.  We gushed over the cuteness of a tiny girl holding a tiny mirror in her tiny hand.  The compact didn't get much thought until later.

Fast Forward to 3:00 p.m.  I'm clacking away at the keyboard, engulfed in work, listening to the kids play happily through the house.  Mini-Me traveled back to her brothers' room, which she does often.  Usually to snatch some "off limit" toy or to make The Youngest Boy cry.  Soon, she started fussing.  It was not a full fledged cry.  More like - bitching.  It sounded like she was trying to get something that was stuck and she was annoyed.  I got up to investigate.  I surely was not expecting the Texas Chainsaw Massacre.  There she was, sitting on the bed, covered in blood.  Mainly because she was shaking her hand like she was trying to get a piece of tape off of her hand.  I didn't bother trying to figure out what caused it.  I grabbed her and ran to the bathroom.  I ordered all kids out of the bedroom until we could determine what happened.

Once in the bathroom, I had to clean her in order to find the origin of the bleeding.  The Oldest went to investigate the cause.  The Middle Son came in with a broken antenna from a CD player.  But that didn't seem likely.  I found the deep gash on the tip of Mini-Me's thumb.  She had fileted the tip.  And still not crying.  I put pressure on it for roughly 15 minutes.  The one thing that I've learned from 13 years in the pro wrestling business and 15 years raising sons - it's First Aid.  I've also amassed a very thorough First Aid kit that includes suture removers and other such tools (it helps that I have a sister who works in a medical office and that Michael used to).  The Oldest comes into the bathroom holding a bloody, broken compact.  Enough guilt set to rival Catholicism.  There weren't enough Hail Mary's to absolve me.  Why on Earth didn't I think about this?  Normally, I can look at an object and come up with at least 15 ways one of the kids can inflict injury on another of the kids using it.  I determined that I could not control the bleed.  I wrapped it in gauze and medical tape - tightly - hoping to stop the bleed.  Then I put a clean sock over it and then her shirt so that she couldn't pull it off on the way to the hospital. 

You know that you're a borderline terrible mother when you have an ER routine.  Each kid knows what to do, who to call and how to prepare.  The Oldest loaded up Mini-Me's diaper bag and made the call to grandma, The Middle Son started cleaning the blood trail while packing his things to take to Grandma's and The Youngest Son- well, he was just grateful that it wasn't him this time as he told Mini-Me of the amenities of Children's Medical Center as we piled into the car.  She just smiled and then fell asleep on the way.  Fortunately, Grandma lives seconds from the hospital.

Michael met us inside as we greeted the same P.A. that handled The Youngest Son's chin and broken jaw as well as his recent "tooth thru the cheek" just weeks ago.  First, he was going to stitch but once he got her cleaned up (and lidocained) he decided to cut the flap of skin and apply pressure.  Unfortunately, there was no stopping the bleeding.  He ordered a clotting agent which finally worked after 3 hours.  Not a whimper out of my baby!  The doctor looked at us and said "Her brothers are in trouble!  This is one tough little girl!"

She's going to have a scar.  And will NEVER, NEVER own another compact again.  Ever.  Even when she's like 40.  Nope.  No more.  Seriously - What the elf was I thinking?  Now, just feeling very blessed that she is okay and it was not nearly as bad as it could have been.

Could you Google the number for Poison Control?

As a mother of 3 boys you expect to have to call Poison Control center at least once.  Me?  Well - my first experience with the1-800-222-1222 was in 1998 when my, then 2 year old, son decided to SUPER GLUE HIS MOUTH SHUT.  Normally this wouldn't be a complaint.  I was just concerned that he may have to have his stomach pumped or need some kind of IV Fluids.  (Cut me a break, I was 20).  For your future reference, Super Glue is non-toxic.  It takes hours to get hardened super glue out of the teeth of a 2 year old boy, you know, in case it comes up on Jeopardy.

Yesterday started like many do.  Mini-Me & I rolled reluctantly out of my smarshmellow soft bed and moseyed down the hall to the living room.  Her diaper was excessively full so I took it off and sat her bare behinded onto the floor.  Youngest Boy then asked for some breakfast as he and Middle Son were already up and at em viciously fighting over Wii privileges.  I proceeded to make a pot of coffee, Youngest Boy's breakfast and sent a particularly snide email to my ex (who went from being a doll to being a complete and total jackhole in a matter of minutes - we will never speak again) all of which took about, I dunno, 12 minutes or less.  Mini-Me crawls over to find me and I start to smell the smell of something really smelly.  She has pooed a trail from the television to my desk.  Roughly 8 feet of my living room is a giant skid mark of 10 month old infant droppings.  Greeeeeat.  I pick her up, grab a towel, half-assedly wipe up the ooze and make my way to the bathroom.  I inform the boys not to answer the door or the phone as I will be showering with the Mini Me since I am now also covered in yuck.

10 minutes later we are squeaky clean!  Youngest Boy and Middle Son are continuing their brutal video game argument in their bedroom.  I place Mini-Me in their room with them so that I can now mop my living room.  Again, I am praising God for hardwood floors!  20 minutes later I have completed the mopping.  I think that now I will indulge in that pot of coffee.  The night before was so incredibly hard.  I smoked a cigarette for the first time since December 2, 2009 and got my drunk on.  (Yes, what he did was that bad.  If it's possible for a shattered heart to break even more it's been accomplished in my rib cage)  I needed to just brush the weekend off and add it to the list of things I've survived in my lifetime.  No sooner do I get the fat free french vanilla creamer poured when I hear Middle Son skipping down the hall to tell me that Mini-Me has gotten into the paint.

Before Ex Douchebag's incredibly dastardly misdeeds occurred I was painting my 34 square foot bathroom "Red Geranium".  I'm going to paint the trim black, add some brushed nickel fixtures, lay some black & white checked flooring, decorative light switch covers and hang my vintage concert posters - Janis, The Doors, Johnny Cash, Patsy Cline and Nirvana with my vinyl copies of Men Without Hats, Heart and The Village People.  Music is the theme.  Red seemed fitting.  I didn't realize it was going to take 804 coats of this paint to cover the Pepto Pink that was previously on the walls.  So this process has taken no less than 4 days and I'm still not even close to done.

I race down the hall to find my beautiful little girl happily splashing around in blood red paint that is quickly flowing from the overturned can.  Apparently I hadn't sealed the lid completely and someone left the bathroom door open.  In the 8 seconds it takes her to get from the boys' room to the bathroom doorway she'd managed to pull over the container.  (Yes, nominate me for Mother of the Year!)  Immediately I pick her up and call for The Oldest to help.  I'm not sure which to do first.  Toss her into the tub or stop the river of paint from taking over the hardwood floor hallway.  Ultimately, it was neither.  I asked The Oldest to get his camera.  After he took the picture I put her into the tub - diaper & all and start hosing her off.  That's when I realize there is a small amount of paint on her mouth.  The Oldest comes into the bathroom to keep an eye on Mini - Me while I am scooping up handfuls of paint and pouring them back into the can.  Mini-Me is screaming now and paint is seeping into the tiles, under the transition strip, beneath the trim and into the grains of the wood.  The Oldest extracts a once again sparkling clean baby girl from the tub and whisks her off to the living room so that I can begin scrubbing.

"Hey [Oldest]" I call from my Cinderella position on the bathroom floor.  He says, in a most annoyed voice - "Yes mother".  "Could you Google the number for Poison Control?".  There I am on my hands and knees scrubbing red paint from the floor dialing Poison Control.  I look like Lizzie Bordon (had she really axed her parents).  I'm still not even fully dried from my shower of 30 minutes ago.  Mark, the RN on the other end of the phone assures me that Mini-Mewill be just fine.  She may toss her cookies but she does not need a trip to the ER.  I'm relieved.  And I need a clone.  Or 2.  Or 4 - 1 to follow around each kid.