Saturday, Baby and I headed to NJ to attend a two-year-old’s birthday party. All was well. He only peed on my friend once, fell asleep in the car, and napped for two hours. Post-nap, Baby was a bit overwhelmed by the people and action of the party (lots of tiny toddlers there causing a ruckus), plus was getting over being terrified from waking up in a completely foreign environment. I fed him bits of quesadilla and he clutched another in his fat, little fist, when all of a sudden, I noticed he was choking — he got really red in the face, alarmed in the eyes, and couldn’t cough. I panicked, cursed, and hit his back (which is the worst thing you can do) — but then brilliantly called my friend Nat over. Nat quickly grabbed Baby, flipped him upside down, gave a few wacks, till Baby threw up and wept. Once in my arms, he kept crying and throwing up on my chest, and the whole thing happened so fast, I’m not sure who helped wipe my body.
So yeah, turns out, I’m not so good in emergency situations, but it was good to see Nat demonstrate on Baby what I actually should have done, and since our small circle knows that Nat had performed infant CPR on his son at age two months, I figured he would have nerves of steel. Good call, at least on that account.
Sunday, Baby ran down the sidewalk, fell, and scraped his moustache area, chin, and got a fat lip. By the time he saw me ten minutes later (I was upstairs cleaning, he was downstairs doing laundry), he smiled with a mouth full of blood and saliva. Oy vey! When all was said and done, I said I cannot wait for him to act like a nerd and sit in the corner, reading. Some daycare mom said Fat chance, get ready for the accidents. Boys this age wipe out all the time.
And by near-death experience, I am, of course, referring to myself.