That's nice, but let's get real. Being a Stay at Home Mom is wonderful about 50% of the time. When we are all snuggled together, reading Little Blue Truck and talking about the awesome toad, it rocks. When I am cleaning the kitchen for the 56th time before noon and scrubbing poop out of the carpet, it sucks. Unfortunately, this summer heat brought out the feral nature of my Things and so I am currently riding the gratitude wagon only 30% of the time. The other 70% of the Colorado Heat Wave of 2012 has felt like I am continually being zapped by an unwavering current of electricity while someone is shoving me into an oven against my will.
I'm a wee bit fried, my peeps.
The constant toy throwing, screaming, fighting, crying, whining and nap refusal that is coming from my precious offspring is making me comatose. I clench my teeth at night. My right eye has been twitching involuntarily since Saturday. I'm yelling. A lot. I am watching WAY too much reality TV. Oh! And did I mention the path of destruction that was formerly known as my house? *sigh* All of this (and more) is why I enjoyed the much needed moment of peace when Thing 1 happily drew pictures and Thing 2 toddled out of the room, post crayon argument. And when I
As much as parents and caregivers would like to imagine that quiet equates 'happy play', anyone with small children knows that quiet means only four things:
1. The child is pooping somewhere. Hopefully, but not necessarily, in a toilet or a diaper.
2. The child is asleep. HAHAHAHA!
3. The child has been kidnapped by a creepy clown driving a windowless van.
4. The child is eating magnets, shoving beads up their nose, drinking Draino, painting the wall with markers, splashing in the toilet with your cell phone or duct taping the cat
Thing 1 left the room and I attempted to follow him. I audibly groaned at the pain shooting from my tweaked out neck and shoulder as I sat up, then hobbled out of the room to discover exactly WHY it was so quiet in my house.
What I found was Thing 2, my two year old, perched on his hand washing stool at the kitchen counter. He seemed quite content as he stood there on his pedestal with his back to me. As I walked around the corner, to further inspect the scene, I discovered that he held an open bottle of pills with one hand and had the other hand jammed into his mouth. He was completely silent as he shoveled in fistfuls of the Vanilla flavored Calcium and Magnesium supplements that I had just purchased for his tiny, picky, "I only eat apples and popsicles!" body .
Then I saw a blur which I assumed was Thing 1. He sprinted away from the counter while he crammed the vitamins into his piehole with speed, accuracy and 'the knowing'. Because he KNEW that they only got TWO per day, he KNEW that he was being naughty, and he KNEW a giant storm by the name of MOM was brewing.
I snatched the supplements away from my baby and immediately poured them on the island. I channeled my veterinary clinic pharmacy past and I swiftly counted the pills. There were 44. I looked at the label on the bottle. It read "90 Tablets". After I asked Thing 1 how many he ate (two! Only two! Well, okay... four. Just four!), I subtracted the four that I had given them the previous day. I figured that my itty bitty, 23 pound Thing 2 had just eaten about 38 tablets.
*breathe, Johi.... BREATHE!*
Desperately, I looked around for someone to blame, but I only saw myself. Incompetent, bedraggled, sleep deprived, overstimulated me.
I wanted to vomit. Violently.
Quickly, I dialed my pediatrician, got the after hours answering service and waited for the on call doctor to get back to me. As I waited, I read the ingredients list on the supplement bottle. "...blueberries, carrot, beet, kale..." It was all food. My baby had just downed a bunch of vanilla flavored, condensed super food. Thank the Lord that I had purchased these at Whole Foods and not from the judgemental vitamin peddler in the Wal-Mart parking lot.
After I spoke with the doctor, poison control and a fellow mom, all of whom reassured me that he would be fine, I started to feel a bit better about the situation. I figured that my frail little boy with the 'discriminating' palette was probably close to being malnourished on his self imposed strict diet of air, sand and frozen juice on a stick. I breathed a little sigh of relief and hoped that this superabundance of nutrition would at least boost him up some semblance of a normal level.
Then I just waited. I watched for any side effects to show up. But there were no hives. There was no diarrhea. There was no constipation. My baby boy seemed fine. And the next day, as I cleaned the immense defecation that flowed down his leg and into his socks, I knew that all was well; for only salad, fiber and prunes can purge a system like like.
Now I sit in my favorite chair and sedate my children with Pixar in anticipation of the arrival of Daddy! With the supplements safely tucked away on the top shelf, I am looking forward to the weekend so that Brock can feel the kind of exhaustion that only small children can inflict upon an adult. Lock the cabinets, put away the duct tape, and hide the magnets, because I'm sleeping in tomorrow morning.
Over and Out Mother Truckers,
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