Mom Misadventures #1

OK, stop me if you've heard this one.

This is a real story from real life that is one of my favorites. I think it captures some of the 'sitcom' aspects of young parenthood.. So...if you have heard me tell this story in person, you can skip this. Or you can read it and see how differently it comes out when I'm not embellishing it with arm-waving and grimacing at key points.

My Son and the Pop-Top Adventure

One sunny day, Mom (me!) and her three small children and their auntie decided to take a walk to the local thrift store. I was a young mother living on a limited budget in a less-than suburban neighborhood without the benefit of a car during the day, so my entertainment venues were limited. The thrift store not only held a wealth of knick-knacks and unusual clothing with odd stains, but also many fascinating characters (my sister regularly saw a lady very much past her prime who liked to shop wearing a beauty contest sash and a tiara. We called her the "Thrift Store Queen.")

My boys began to tire of my browsing, and they asked if they could please, please, have a can of pop from the vending machine? Vending machines were a huge treat. My patience was wearing thin, so of course, in the tradition of all exhausted mothers everywhere, I said yes. "But you sit RIGHT HERE by the machine and drink it. Don't move until you are done, then come find me." (By the way...this is in Minnesota, where 'soda' is more correctly called 'pop.' You can argue with me later.)

Ah, blissful quiet...I'm searching the clothing racks for winter jackets when...

"Carla! Come quick! Greg says he's choking!"

My sister ran up, grabbed me and we headed for the vending machines.  I found my middle child (about age 5) seated on the cold cement floor, holding his throat and staring bug-eyed at me--"Mommy, I swallowed the tab off my pop can!" he whispered frantically.

Visions of throat-gashing metal edges swarmed over me as I accosted the local cop posted at the door (this is a very fine establishment). "I need to make a phone call! I need to talk to the doctor!" But as I was calling my insurance hot line (oh, group health...), I saw that a fire truck has already pulled into the parking lot. The policeman had jumped the gun.

The whole store had now gathered around this poor little angelic blond boy, gawking as the firemen and then the  EMTs checked his pulse, asked him questions, and finally escorted him out to the waiting ambulance. My sister collected the other kids to take them home, and I was privileged to  (oh, joy!) ride in the back of the ambulance with my poor, gasping child. "It's ok, Greg, you'll be fine..." But will he?? Every mother's nightmare is coming true! My lack of oversight has led to this. My "Best Mom Ever" mug will be taken away, and I will live in ignominy forever. There will be a "60 Minutes" reporter at my door when I get home. Oh, the shame.

Ah, but the blase atmosphere of the local emergency room brought me back to reality. They don't care if you die in the waiting room...you'd just better make sure you get that insurance form filled out pronto. After quite a wait, we ended up in an exam room. After another extended wait, here comes a doctor...

"Well, young man, what have you been up to?" "I swallowed a pop-top." "Can you breathe?" "Yeah." "Well, I see you can talk. I'll bring you something...hold on..."

And he returned with...graham crackers and milk.


"What???" I am amazed. "What's this for?"

"Eat the cracker and drink the milk, son. It'll help move that little metal bugger right along."

"But...but...won't it rip his stomach up?" I am astonished at this whole line of thinking.

"Nah....it will get all coated up by mucus and go through just fine. Kids eat all sorts of thing, even glass, that just goes right on through."

Well, to this day, I don't know if this was very good treatment, but it seemed to work that time. After his delicious little $400 snack, Greg was ready to go home.

The day was shot. I was exhausted. And I still had dinner to cook and the family to feed when I got home. My sister was there to help, thank goodness. As we sorted out the kitchen mess, I found the offending pop can in one of my shopping bags. Into the recycling bin you go, you bad, bad thing! I shook the can over the sink to empty any remaining liquid.

Clink, clink.

Out fell a pop-top tab. Shiny and accusing.

"Greg...WHAT IS THIS??"

Greg peered into the sink, saw the tab, and said very soberly, "Well, I thought I swallowed it."

Who can be mad at a face like this...I ask you?