Don't worry; this isn't the sequel to my last post about how having two toddlers is running me ragged. What happened this morning was purely accidental, and fortunately relatively benign. But it was a good example of how toddlers manage to find hazards you'd never even considered before.
It was after I'd given the girls breakfast, and we were all hanging out in the kitchen -- the ladies playing with their rubber balls, me cleaning up. I opened the dishwasher to empty it and noticed that the hinge was catching and squeaking in a weird way. I ducked into the bathroom, where I was pretty sure we had one of the ten-thousand cans of WD-40 that "Santa" puts in my Christmas stocking when we spend the holidays at my parents' house. (Along with windshield de-icer, batteries, and usually a pair of nail clippers. When did Santa get so damned practical?)
Ironically, as I was looking for the WD-40, the thought I had was "hm, I wonder if maybe I shouldn't use WD-40 with the girls around," thinking they could somehow get it on their hands and into their mouths. But I realized this was silly, because they really wouldn't be able to get at the hinges of the dishwasher door. But I was pleased with myself for being so conscientious.
Until I came out of the bathroom, and saw Elsa poking at her tongue, making a "yuck" face and whimpering slightly. Her wrist had some kind of white gunk on it, and I thought at first that she'd spit up. (Not a common occurence these days, but it could happen.) I quickly realized that whatever was on her hand and in her mouth smelled far too springtime-fresh to be spit-up. Then I saw the open dishwasher door (bad mommy!), and the residue of the liquid detergent left behind in the detergent holder, scored with little finger marks. It was like some badly edited film: shot of mother examining child's mouth and hands. Cut to dishwasher. Zoom in to detergent cup. Back to child. Shot of mother's eyes gone wide. High-pitched, panicked violin music up.
I grabbed a washcloth, soaked it, and rubbed it around in Elsa's mouth, which she tolerated quite patiently, then gave her some water to drink, and decided that this really wasn't so bad. She'd probably only gotten a tiny bit of detergent in her mouth, and swallowed little, if any. Hell, parents used to wash their kids' mouths out with soap for swearing, right? And this was dish soap; you put it on things that go into your mouth. How toxic could it be?
But I thought to be safe, I should read the back of the detergent bottle. It said: If product is swallowed or gets in mouth, rinse mouth out (check!) give glassful of water or milk (check!), and contact poison control or doctor immediately. Um...shit. OK!
Until this point in my life, "Poison Control" had always just been a number on a refrigerator magnet, or a sticker on the phone. I didn't think anyone actually ever called it. As I dialed (I found the number on a refrigerator magnet whose origin utterly escapes me) I half expected to get a recording saying the number was no longer in service and hadn't been since 1989. But sure enough, a nice woman answered, I told her about my little situation, and she said I'd done exactly what I should have, and there was nothing else to do. "Just keep an eye on her for the next fifteen minutes," she said. "If she vomits, she'll do it in that timeframe."
About ten minutes after I'd hung up the phone, as if on cue, Elsa had a teeny, tiny little puke on the kitchen floor. She barely seemed to notice it had happened, and just went along her merry way.
Phew.
What a way to start the weekend, eh?
