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Wednesday, January 2, 2013

In God We Trust

ACTUAL SIZE.
We finish years with a bang.

We spent a few days in Alabama for the holidays.  It's a pretty big drive, but everyone did great, especially me quite frankly, in avoiding all the county mounties and assorted bears on I-10.  We were eastbound and down, loaded up and truckin', man.  So no sweat, we get over there with no big problems.

I mean, there was the issue of me worrying about the relative health of the truck's battery.  Last week, somebody decided to push The Buttons That Should Not Be Pushed.  Twice.  Like say, the stupid fog lamps that inexplicably don't turn off on their own.  (GM Engineering Geniuses, I have strong, strong words for y'all.)  This rendered the truck as dead as a ball peen hammer twice over, but y'know, bygones.

We spent some great time with the family, and Jack and The Curlycue got plenty of cousin-time.  We headed back.  All was well.  We were booking it through Eastern Louisiana somewhere, when I hear it.

Retching.

Man, I hate that sound.  The sound - and then the moment - riiiiiiight before clothes and furniture and books and trucks and carpet and usually some part of me or other is splattered in yakkity yak.

I look back and see Jack with two fingers down his throat, tickling his pancreas or whatever.  I yell at him to stop choking himself.  He's freaking out.  Majesty's trying to figure out what's wrong.  He's retching.  And hacking.  And clutching his neck.  And screaming that it hurts, it hurts.

I can't exactly remember how it played out, but somehow H.M. decides that he's swallowed something.  Y'know, other than his hand.  Before I know it, and before I really know why, she's holding a dime and a quarter in front of (still flipping out) Jack and asking him which one.  It comes up quarters.

Terrific.

We are travelling 80 zillion miles per hour, in a moderately remote part of Cajunistan, with a child that's just eaten U.S. currency.  The only thing I can think of doing?

"SIRI, EMERGENCY ROOM!"

The iWhatever routes us to an emergency room 20 minutes away.  Listen, for all the naysaying Apple-haters out there, that thing's brilliant, even if fouryearolds are um, somewhat less so.

Majestad and I are angrily doing the calculus on how big a quarter dollar is compared to various and sundry openings in the gastrointestinal tract of a (once) loved one.  Pyloric valves are mentioned.  So that's fun.  He's now clutching at his sternum, in obvious pain, just hating life.  He declares that he doesn't WANT to go to the MUWGENCY WOOM!  Tough tortillas, Pancho.

Anyway, en route to the ER, SuperFrau gets on the horn to our on-call pediatrician.  The doc that answers is the same guy that has taken the following calls, in no particular order:
  1. Jack's mouth versus parquet floor at high speed (the parquet won)
  2. Jack taking Majestad's prenatal vitamins
  3. Jack eating like 25 Halls cough drops
  4. Jack almost impaling himself through the ribcage whilst BASE jumping onto the crenelations of a wooden toy castle
The man thinks we're lunatics.

He gives us some guidelines, says everything's probably fine, but look out for X, Y and Z throughout the day.  We continue to interrogate Jack (believe me, I would have waterboarded him if I had a spare washcloth) and one of us asks who was on the coin he swallowed.

*HACK*TOMMUS JEFFUWSON*GAG*

I know what you're thinking.  You're thinking we were just trying to show all you other parents up by teaching our child which U.S. presidents are on our money.  But it's not like that at all.  It comes in pretty handy when you're trying to figure out what they swallowed.  That one's free.  Just file that away for future use.  And for the record, yes, I would've fainted if he had said DUHWIGHT DEE EYZENHOWUW.

A nickel.  Well!  That's SO MUCH BETTER than a quarter.  Smaller diameter.  Smooth sides.  Less expensive, too.

I pull him out of the truck later, and he's got quarters stuffed in his seatbelt straps.  They're in his pockets.  Littering the floor of the truck.  The dude is awash in dough.

We get back home with My (Former) Main Man and Soul Brother #1, who is on a "No Big Chunks of Anything Whatsoever" diet.  He goes in for an XWAY the following morning.

Thomas Jefferson's sitting right there in his stomach,  reading Voltaire in French on a beach chair.  Jack told me his personal diagnosis after being gleefully irradiated:

"It's in my E Phosuhgus.  My lungs are next to my nickel!"

2 comments:

Bebe said...

It had to happen!!

Roxanne said...

Who amongst us has not swallowed some legal tender at some point? I distinctly remember swallowing a quarter my sister gave me, then crying because I thought it might hurt her feelings that I had "thrown it away." Glad he's okay and I'm glad he didn't say he's swallowed Sacajawea. Just sayin'.