I was at my store early this afternoon for my daily operations audit. I have not been out of the house for more than one hour when I got an urgent call from my daughter’s nanny. She was frantic — that, in itself, launched my imagination into the many mishaps that could have befallen any or all my three children. But I only needed one to bring me to a state a shade shy from an aneurism — my husband was on the way to a hospital emergency room with my five-year old. You see, my son drove a 1.5V cell battery up his left nostril.
My five-year old son disassembled a toy train (with a screw driver he climbed the garage cabinets to get), pulled out two, round batteries, each less than a centimeter in diameter and managed to shove one of them so far up his nasal cavity, he couldn’t breathe. Let me say that again (because even I am still in disbelief): My son drove a battery up his left nostril!
I drove to the hospital with my hazard lights on, and I managed to get there just as my husband’s van was approaching the emergency room entrance. I will spare you the drama that ensued in the ER. Suffice it to say, there were a lot of tears — less than half came from the five-year old.
Years from now, I’m sure my son will enjoy retelling this little tale to his golf buddies. And who knows, my liberal sense of humor might have kicked in by then and maybe, I will too.
In the meantime, after re-child-proofing the house like the manic organizer than I am, I will bleed this event of all the “listen-to-me-or-we-might-end-up-in-the-emergency-room-again” argument-enders that I can manage. Also, I am resolved to roundhouse kick in the gut any adult entrusted with the momentary care of my children, the next time their little pre-school hands manage to get screw drivers while the said adult is watching the ball game.