Karma, Kinda

In retribution for my gross abuse of Skittles, I was punished by the Universe.

Forty-five seconds before we were to leave for a birthday party, Lea staggered into the bathroom crying, calling for me, and spitting up something pale pink and slightly foamy. I wiped her mouth repeatedly as she continued to spit up the stuff. I stuck the washcloth into her mouth to swipe down her tongue. I asked her over and over again what she'd eaten and grew increasingly panicked when she couldn't stop crying long enough to tell me. I sniffed the washcloth; it smelled of nothing. Which meant that it wasn't candy. Not good.

I gave her a sip of water and--get this!--a couple of Skittles, which immediately stopped her blubbering. I settled her on the couch and walked slowly around my bedroom (that's where she'd been when this started) trying to figure out what happened. There was a streak of pale pink on the carpet near my bed. After a few minutes, a little voice at my back. "It was there, Mama."

"Right here?"

"Under." She pointed under my bed. I bent way down and peered at the dust bunnies. I should vacuum under there more often.

"What did it look like?" I asked.

"Like a circle."

"Like candy?"

"Like a Skittle."

Turns out she had digested a stray Advil which does, indeed, look exactly like a Skittle. I called Poison Control and felt like a criminal. I briefly considered explaining that, well, an Advil looks like a Skittle. But that would have made it clear that my child ate it because she thought it was a Skittle. And then I would have felt obliged to explain why I allow my 2-year-old to eat Skittles (hint: it is entirely her Lolo's fault). I had to suck it up; there was no way to spin it.

"Oh, she'll be fine," said Poison Control Guy. "At her weight, she'd have to digest...let's see...about twenty Advil before they'd do any damage."

At the party, she seemed a little more subdued than the experience (i.e. cake, balloons, lollipops) warranted. She was, I suppose, feeling no pain. Which was more than I could say for myself.

Bad, bad mother.