How’s your week going, so far?
Glad you asked!
My two-year-old decided yesterday was a great day to scare the shit out of me!
It was mid-morning.
I had begun going about my daily routine of kicking toys and searching for dishes left throughout the house.
Little Guy needed to brush his teeth. He does this on his own now – and actually, pretty damn well.
I pasted his toothbrush and walked into the kitchen, which is not even a whole foot away from the bathroom. I heard the water turn on, and I continued playing hide and seek with the dishes, satisfied that he likely had the toothbrush in his mouth.
I heard the water turn off quickly, so I walked back to clean the inevitable spit that’s usually sprayed on the mirror.
What I ACTUALLY found was not a dirty mirror and toddler with clean teeth.
Instead, I found Little Guy with a mouth full of Loratadine.
Loratadine is just generic Claritan – allergy medicine.
First, let me say – yeah, there was a “child-proof” cap on it. My kid is apparently both strong and smart. Second, I should RE-point out that he was alone in the bathroom, within hearing distance for no more than two whole minutes.
So, the kid has a mouth full of allergy medicine and I immediately grab hold of him, making the rest of the bottle fly across the room. I open his mouth to pull out what hasn’t been swallowed. And in a panic, I start scraping chewed up pills from the back of his teeth.
I imagine there are so many things that go through a parent’s mind when something like this happens.
I assume my thoughts were the same as any parent who has found themself in a similar situation.
But, ultimately, pushing those feelings aside to do what needs to be done in the moment.
I immediately called Poison Control.
…I should also note that in the eight years I have been a parent, this year is the first I’ve ever had to call Poison Control. Leave it to this kid! Isn’t the middle child supposed to be the difficult one?
So, I went through all the specifics of the medication with Poison Control. They advised me to just watch for an elevated heart rate or unusual irritability…
Unusual irritability…in a toddler…yeah, OK.
Anyway, they said the hospital wasn’t necessary.
As a freaked out mama, though, I tend to feel like doing nothing is not acceptable.
I called the pediatrician too. I explained what happened and how I already called Poison Control. Their second opinion was the same as the first.
This is great, right? No need for a hospital or inducing vomit! My only instructions are to WATCH the kid.
I felt better about the situation for exactly five minutes.
I then did what I know I should never do.
I know I shouldn’t, but always do anyway.
I Googled it.
Here’s the thing about Googling medical questions:
There’s A LOT of info out there in the great big World Wide Web. Most of what I found on toddlers taking antihistamines was good, clear advice, and basically what I had already been told.
But, when you poke around the search results for a few minutes, you start getting into all the freak-accident cases. The stuff that maybe happened to one kid out of millions in the past 20-some odd years…
…and then you irrationally start to think, “is MY kid going to be this rare case too?”
I spent the next several hours afraid to leave Little Guy alone. I assumed every time he tripped on a toy, he was stoned on allergy meds and it was only a matter of time until he’d hit the ground and pass out.
I obsessively felt his chest and back for irregular breathing and heart rates.
I had been in the middle of doing laundry (surprise!) but could no longer bring myself to carry baskets up and down stairs because I was CERTAIN that the second I walked away he would turn blue.
All day I pictured eyes rolling back. Seizures. Fevers. Blue lips. Calling 9-1-1.
Well, I’m happy to report that Poison Control AND the pediatrician had, in fact, given me sound advice.
As it turned out, Little Guy was absolutely fine, with a mild case of dry-mouth and some hiccups.
(DON’T Google long-lasting hiccups!)
Little Guy was good.
And as our day came to an end, I slowly snapped out of my “I’m The Worst Mom In The World” guilt.
He went to bed. I turned on Netflix.
And as I drifted off to sleep, I silently promised myself that shit would never happen again.
I woke up this morning, still wearing yesterday’s clothes.
Can you blame me, though?