Wow, you put a lot of work into Munchkin’s routine board! It looks like it can be great, so I hope her excitement doesn’t wane.
So I’ve got a scary story from today. Seriously, I don’t know if I’ll be able to sleep tonight. Or if I do, it may have to be on the rocking chair in Little Mister’s room.
Charles, LM, and I went to dinner with some friends tonight, and we were having a lovely time. We hadn’t seen them for some months, and we were enjoying catching up. Little Mister was eating like he had a hollow leg – scarfing down carrots and cereal and applesauce. At some point, I figured he was going to explode if he kept eating, but he still wanted to be nomming. So I gave him a teething biscuit to work on (doctor-approved!).
Perhaps you can see where this is going.
Now, I’m nervous about feeding him anything denser than a puree at the best of times, as it’s very easy to imagine him choking. It looks like his face turning red and purple, and his eyes watering, and his mouth open but no noise coming out, and this horrible, desperate look on his face.
Yeah, that’s a memory now, and not imagination.
I pretty much panicked. Instinct overrode any kind of higher thought. I jumped up, ran around behind him and tried simultaneously to whack him on the back and to get him out of the high chair so I could turn him upside down and whack him on the back some more. Or something. Anything. I also … might … have used some language I don’t normally use.
And he got it up. He was so okay, so quickly, that he didn’t even really seem to remember being distressed. He didn’t even cry. He was soon cuddled in my lap drinking his bottle, more for my comfort than for his, probably. (That boy definitely had a hollow leg tonight.) He almost certainly would have been fine; one of our dinner companions pointed out that he himself was a “highly trained professional” in the realm of children and respiratory problems. But, you know, for me at that moment – logic was out the window, and no one seemed to be noticing LM’s choking or moving fast enough. I didn’t have time to wait for any professionals, or at least that’s how it felt.
He’s all right, he’s fine; I’m the one with the scar from this event, and that’s the way I’d prefer it. But I’ll tell you, I’ve decided the boy isn’t eating anything truly solid until he’s eighteen; I don’t care what the doctor says he’s ready for. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time for bed, and I think I’m going to go have the freak-out I refrained from in the restaurant.