I suppose that there must come a time in every parents life when they look at their offspring and wonder not-so-secretly if they are intelligent enough to care for this young life until they leave the home (by DCFS or not). I’ve often mused that people who want to become parents should really take an IQ test prior to trying to make the babies.
(This coming from the person whose children BOTH had a deep and abiding love for Diet Coke and all of it’s battery acid goodness. Don’t hate the player, hate the game, people).
Well, my Moment of Truth (to borrow the phrase from that new lame TV show. Seriously, I had high hopes for the entertainment value of that show. Hopes that were immediately dashed.) came this Saturday morning, when Dave burst in, Alex in tow, interrupting my sleep and a fantastic dream in which I was sleeping on a bed of cake frosting AND EATING IT (my dreams are always bizarre as hell), and not-so-gently urged me awake.
“Alex swallowed a dime,” was the phrase The Daver used to nudge me awake.
“Mmmmm….pink frosting with sprinkles,” I replied, “Oooohhhh, how I love you.”
“Becky, wake up!” Dave pleaded, “Alex ate a dime.”
Well, if there is anything in the world that can rip me indelicately away from beautiful dreams of frosting mountains, that would probably be it.
Because I am non-alarmist AND a health care professional, I wasn’t too worried. I mean, I could have rushed him to the ER, had a full set of X-rays done, so the doctor could inform me that my son had ingested a dime, and that I would simply have to wait and make sure it passed. THEN, I would have gotten a lecture about proper childproofing, like my home was just riddled with loose change strewn about on the floor, and THEN he might tell me that I should probably remove the Lye and Rat Poison from it’s storage space on the kitchen floor, and THEN where will I be?
So, The Great Poop Watch of 2008 begins with a bang. I’ve threatened to make Dave stay home until the elusive dime is passed, rooting around in our son’s diaper like a dog, searching for gold (well, cadmium and nickel), as this did happen on HIS watch (which I remind him of approximately every 2.5 minutes), but I don’t think he’ll do it.
And have no fear, if that nasty dime doesn’t pass in a couple of days, I’ll take him to the doctor for X-rays and a lecture on proper childproofing habits (to be completely fair to us both, Ben never got into a damn thing in his life. He was–and still is– the least adventuresome child on the planet.).
The question is, what do I DO with this dime once it passes? Do I leave it in my wallet to gleefully give to the nastiest cashier that I encounter? Or do I just toss it in the garbage and figure that there isn’t much I would spend a dime on, after all, now that I’m not 5 or 6.
What would you do with a dime that had passed through your child’s digestive tract?