99% Sure That He Ate It

The following is a conversation that took place between Cole (2) and me (35) at 7:30 a.m. on Friday morning.

"Something's wrong." (while whimpering)

"What's wrong?"

"I ate the bird. I ate it all up. It hurts."

"Honey, what did you eat?"

"Aidan's bird."

"What bird? Where is it?"

"Aidan's blue bird. I ate it all up. It hurts." (more whimpering)

"Is it in your throat?"

"In my throat. Mommy, will you hold me?" (crying, some panicking on my part, I pick him up)

"Are you sure that you ate Aidan's bird? Why did you eat the bird?"

"For some reason."

"What reason? Cole? Sweetie? What reason?"

"A raisin." (he seems a little more comfortable now, like maybe the piece was stuck and now it's on its way down to the belly parts)

"The bird is not a raisin. It's plastic and can hurt your belly."

"I can eat a peanut butter sandwich?"

"Yes!! That's food. A plastic Playmobil bird is not food."

"Yeah."

"Are you o.k.?"

"Yeah, I'm o.k."

After thorough evaluation of Cole (no bird in mouth or windpipe) leading to conclusion that Cole could and would continue to breathe and talk, and a few sips of whiskey, I mean tension tamer tea, I, Cole's mother and Aidan, Cole's sister (4), began looking around the house for the tiny (but big enough to cause worry), blue, plastic bird. We found one of the two birds from the set. We looked at the picture on the box (NOTE TO PARENTS: it is useful, very useful, to save these boxes so as to be able to consult detailed picture of pieces when determining which piece your child might have swallowed) and determined that Cole had eaten the bird that was sitting up and not the one with the pointy tailfeathers sticking up in the air and were relieved to know that this might mean a more comfortable passing of the bird.

I called Amanda (rang a bunch of times and I didn't want to wake her), Kim, my mother-in-law, dial-a-nurse, not Tad only because he is almost impossible to reach during the day and finally Dr. Tom. Dr. Tom said to feed Cole a sandwich and give him something to drink and if it all went down fine then not to worry. "But what about the semi-sharpness of the bird's feathers," I asked. "If it's pointed in the right direction, which feeding him will determine, then he'll be fine." "O.k," I said as I began to make Cole's sandwich. He ate it without incident and I took the kids to the park.

Four days later we are yet to see the blue, plastic bird. Seems like it would be obvious in a pile of poop, but then who wants to go through a pile of poop looking for a blue, plastic bird about the size of the tip of my finger?

I don't. Because my kid is o.k. And that is what matters. Even if, from time to time, I DO miss that blue, plastic bird sitting on the limb of the green plastic tree, the other blue bird forever alone, forever wondering where and why its mate has gone.