Hello, Poison Control? It’s Me Again.

Last night, we got back from the playground and were getting ready for dinner when Luke climbed up the step stool to wash his hands at the sink.

I took his hands, one by one, to soap them up and rinse with water. He was pretty ecstatic to be playing  in the water, so I let him stand there, leaning over the sink rinsing spoons and cups, while I got something out from the fridge for dinner. 

The next time I looked over, Luke had his head tipped back, holding a clear container to his lips. He swallowed. The container was now empty.  THE DISWASHING SOAP CONTAINER. Um, we use that container to make a soap solution in for washing the dishes. 

How much was in there?

I leaned over and smelled his lips. Yup.  He just drank soap.  

CRAP! SOAP! CRAP!

I grabbed the bottle to look for a skull and crossbones. None. Soap is fairly benign, right? Right?

Just to be safe, I dialed Poison Control. I got the number from the magnet they gave me the LAST time I called—when Luke decided to enjoy a Vick’s Vapor Rub appetizer before dinner. Don’t ask.

(“Do you have our magnet? PLEASE ACCEPT A MAGNET.”)

The nice, non-judgmental folks at Poison Control were kind and did not talk to me like I had two teef [sic] and a daily six-pack habit. They were pretty sure he would be just fine, but would call back to check up on him.

As I imagined poor Luke pooping soap suds in the hours to come, I thought about the fact that we never had to call Poison Control for Elise. Was Luke a trouble-maker? Or were we just less attentive by necessity with the second child? And with that, I tightened the safety lock on the kitchen cabinet with the really dangerous stuff.

Luke ended up fine.   Me, however…pretty convinced that there are Xeroxed photos of me going up at the post office as we speak saying “APPREHEND THIS WOMAN. SHE MAY BE DRINKING A BEER. OR FEEDING ONE TO HER KID.”