But because of this:
Sure, it looks like an innocent enough toy. At least it did to me, which is why I gave it to Faith to play with on the ride home from daycare. She often needs something to distract her from the sun in her eyes that comes in from the rear window. As I'm cruisin' down Harney Street, I glance in my rearview mirror only to see what looks like one of the arms in her mouth, detached from the body. I immediately pulled over and hopped into the backseat. That's when I saw this:
No, your eyes are not deceiving you. That's a big ole hole in whatever the hell material the apple is made out of. If you're reading this and panicking, imagine me. I reached my finger into her mouth. Nothing. Just a speck of red on her tongue. She was babbling and acting completely normal so I got back into the driver's seat and drove home, my eyes glued to that rearview mirror and the apple now safe in my hand. That's when the conversation with the poison control center started in my head. "My daughter took a bite out of an apple," I would tell them. Then they would hang up on me. "No, not that kind of apple," I would say before phone met the receiver. "Well, what was the apple made out of?" the person would ask. This was where I went blank. I had no idea what the hell it was. Styrofoam? So I did what any mother would do, I did this:
Oh yeah, I took a bite of my own. I had to know. It was the squishiest, most non-chewable piece of nasty-tasting material ever. How in the hell could she have swallowed this I thought as I spit it out. That's when it dawned on me. Maybe she spit it out too. Dear God, please let her have spit it out. I would do a dance of joy or whatever else God wanted if that piece of apple were still in her carseat when we got home. I sped even faster than usual the rest of the way in fear that if she hadn't already swallowed the piece of apple, she would rediscover it in her carseat and put it back in her mouth. As I pulled in the driveway, Rob met me outside. I had been on the phone with him when I pulled over and hung up to check on Faith. Apparently he tried to call me three more times on our drive home, but the conversation in my head was so loud I didn't hear the phone vibrate. He unbuckled Faith from her carseat and immediately spotted the missing piece of apple. Oh thank heavens! That's when I made the mistake of telling him I took my own bite of apple just to see what it tasted like. His response: "You know you're crazy, right?" If the missing piece of apple doesn't solidify it, the conversation in my head definitely does. Hi ho, hi ho!
That's what moms do!
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