Originally Published by Amy Hunter on The Outnumbered Mother
After three kids, I’m pretty sure I’ve blocked out the myriad of stupid situations and random disasters that come with raising sons. Because, if I were to have a crystal-clear recollection of it all, I’d be occupying a padded room somewhere. My brain has done me a solid with the repression of those memories. Unfortunately, this repression has landed me in uncharted waters and I’ve come to the conclusion that my baby has a death wish — he puts absolutely anything and everything into his mouth.
Now, back to my faded memories of my other children at the same age. I’m sure they must have attempted to eat things that weren’t meant to be eaten, but it was a lot easier to regulate then. I could contain the mess because I didn’t have many children. That is the furthest situation from the truth today. There is always a wayward Lego, a small slice of wrapping paper or a large chunk of plastic wrapper lurking about. And the baby has become an expert at discovering these things and quickly squirreling them into his mouth before I can run my fat ass over to retrieve it. I once found a foam exclamation point nestled inside his cheek and when I wrestled that shit from his clenched jaw, he was ridiculously angry.
It’s not that he doesn’t have a million fucking toys that are age-appropriate to jam in his mouth. He does! But those things don’t have the appeal that, say, a paper clip does, so now I’m spending all my time either yelling at the older kids to pick up their shit or souring the floor on my hands and knees for things that could kill my child if he consumes them. Which he will, because plastic is damn delicious.
So, there it is. The glamorous life I lead. It would be easier to tango backwards in six-inch stilettos.
This problem has become more urgent in the last two weeks. The kids are on winter break, the baby has finally gotten into a crawling groove and I can’t pick the shit up fast enough that they leave everywhere like exhaust fumes in their wake. The stress and the fear of this kid getting into something he shouldn’t while I’m dealing with all the other lives in this house has me at my breaking point. Scratch that, my broken point. I’m a frazzled, frantic mess. It’s not a good look.
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
Eating a little Lego never killed anyone.
At least according to Google.
About Amy Hunter
Amy grew up in the suburbs of Long Island singing Barbara Streisand hits into her hairbrush. When she’s not writing her hilarity-fueled parenting memoir as The Outnumbered Mother, she’s a Florida-living, butt-wiping, soccer team-carting, gourmet chef-attempting, tennis skirt-wearing, non-tennis-playing, self-proclaimed bad mamma jamma to three sons and a very understanding husband. Amy can be found as a regular contributor to Scary Mommy, In The Powder Room and in the pages of Scary Mommy’s Guide to Surviving the Holidays.