Thursday, May 29, 2008
About half an hour ago, I was at a neighborhood pizza restaurant with Sister, her two kids and their two friends. Sister asked me to keep an eye on her kids while she used the restroom.
I was in the process of sternly asking one of them to climb down from the skeeball machine when Son tugged on my sleeve. I shook him off and kept my focus on the skeeball climber. He tugged again. "Stop it, Son," I said, giving him the shake off again. Finally I turned to him, ready to sternly lecture him, as well.
Son stood at my side, a horrified look on his semi-cyanotic face, trying to speak, trying to breathe. Choking. Niece had asked me if Son could have a starlight mint. I said yes. He then tried to get my help and I brushed him off.
Before I could even form the thought to do the Heimlich, he coughed the piece of candy up. It went shooting across the room. Then he vomited, all over his neglectful mother.
"I'm sick. I need to go to the doctor," he cried.
But I am a doctor. And your mommy. And not very good at either right now.
"No you don't, sweetie," I said, cuddling him, "that was scary, wasn't it?"
He's fine now. Incident forgotten. But I'm still shaking.
Labels: Fat Doctor