On Wednesday night, the night of Ruby’s birthday, no less, Elliot decided that he was bored of all the attention she was getting, and swallowed a coin.
It was 9:30pm. I had just settled down to watch a bit of telly, and Ross had gone out for the evening with his friends. There was a pad pad pad down the stairs, and the creek of the living room door being pushed open. A cheeky little boy face peered around the door frame and I knew somewhere upstairs, there had been some mischief.
“Mummy,” he smiled, “I put a coin in my tummy”
A large sigh. I asked him if he was telling the truth. He nodded. I asked him if he meant he put a coin in his nappy. He shook his head, and told me again that it was in his tummy. I asked him how it got there. He put his finger in his mouth and gulped. And then laughed. A little too heartily.
I rang 111. After all, my child swallowed a coin!
They asked me all sorts of questions about whether he was breathing, whether he was coughing, if there was vomit, and blood and if he had a temperature, and despite my assurances that he was fine and dandy and entirely too proud of his endeavours, they told me we ought to go to A&E incase it was stuck in his chest. Ross came home, and off we went.
Five hours, 10 stories, a viewing of Finding Nemo, 2 doctors, a radiologist and an x-ray later, we were home. His chest was clear. The coin, we were told, would have to pass on its own. Delightful.
Well, Thursday came and went and there was no coin to be seen (or heard… there was no way I was sifting through poo for any coin small enough to shit out. I was going to be satisfied with a clink into the toilet). I was wondering if in actual fact there had been a coin at all, and if our 10pm jaunt to A&E was little more than a massive waste of everyone’s time and resources.
But then, yesterday morning, we were being lazy. I languished around in my bed until well after 10, going downstairs only to make the children some breakfast and myself a coffee. Elliot popped his head around the door at 10:30 and said he’d like to get dressed. He can do it all himself (although often his trousers are the wrong way around and his t shirt is inside out, still, I am proud nonetheless – he’s only just three!) but he likes me to help him with his pull-up because he doesn’t really like to look at what might be in it, and that way I can give him once over with a wet wipe so he doesn’t stink of wee all day. So I pulled it down, and there was the offending penny, with nothing more than a tiny skid mark to accompany it.
You guys! Elliot farted out the penny.
He farted out the penny.
Can we just take a moment to think about how funny that actually is?
Never change, Elliot.