tonight we had a bit of a scare – papa is Dutch and a friend of ours had returned from a European holiday with some of his favourite lollies.
Leafy, overlord that she is, demanded some licorice. And who am I to deny her her heritage? Besides, if the kid can manage to eat savoys with no teeth, I feel like she’s pretty on top of her shit.
But whilst papa and I were talking she sucked the coin a bit too far back in the throat and got the blasted thing stuck.
It’s actually surprising that this hasn’t happened to us yet, she eats absoloutely everything with aplomb.
I kind of nearly cried and she spewed a wee bit trying to dislodge the bastard. It was more a scare than anything, and nan nan the nurse came around for reassurance. Crux of the matter is all was well but probably don’t give a one year old a hunk of licorice without breaking it down.
Irrespective of the outcome, it was frightening. You know how when minor things happen you automatically envision the worst case scenario?
Papas late ergo he’s had a car accident.
Crazy didn’t come round after school therefore he was bashed and left for dead.
Nan Nan hasn’t called today thus a call from a paramedic is imminent.
No? Just me? Well… In that case…
I had a dozen half formed thoughts in the realm of taking her to the hospital cause it’s lodged and she won’t stop vomiting, or having to call an ambulance cause she can’t breathe, or having a car accident cause I’m distracted while driving to hospital. Or us thinking she’s dislodged it but her choking in her sleep tonight.
Horrendous things to even think, but you know, worst case scenario.
And then the next obvious (I’d say logical but none of this seems to be along that line) consideration is how would I react? Cope? How the blithering pile of woe would I continue to exist?
Probably not, is the answer.
In practical terms I suppose I would, but I would not want to live without the feral little devil I call mine. Especially feeling responsible!
But before those half thoughts are fully formed, there’s a sizeable component of superstition that screams out from the rear of my noggin’; “touch wood you dumb mother fucker!”
And I just cuddle her and try steal a kiss and say for the bazillionth time, “I love you, baby leafy.”
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