So, I was cleaning my teeth – pretty standard morning stuff. When I inhaled. And somehow sucked a glob of toothpaste into my windpipe. As I stood gasping by the flung-open window, my toddler ran into the bathroom. I looked at his worried little eyes. Could he perform a Heimlich? I wondered.
Enemy at the Pastes
I’ve always thought “glob” was a pretty distasteful word, and my goodness was I forming a strong dislike to it now. The beastly little goo-bullet was firmly stuck in my air hole and my increasingly desperate coughs were not dislodging it. As if to add insult to injury, the gloopy missile started emitting fumes into my nose so I could barely breathe through that either.
I did not want to be minty fresh. I just wanted to be able to breathe.
“Mummy, water?” said my toddler.
I nodded vigorously, with what I hope was both a praise-conveying and reassuring expression, but fear was more of a grimace of chemical poisoning.
For now, the glob was burning my throat with its “advanced formula” and the water I was sipping was not helping any.
“Mummy, cough?” said my poor baby.
Looking at his beautiful little face, I decided I had to take action. I was still only able to breathe thinly through my nose – which my family will testify has never been my forte, despite its size. My adenoidectomy as a child didn’t seem to have touched the sides.
I felt like I was going to suffocate alone in the house with my child.
So I scooped him up and legged it up the road. By bad luck, I knew that my two closest neighbours were both abroad. I couldn’t talk, so how could I call an ambulance?
I needed direct action.
At the top of the road, I came to a door. I banged on it. A lady holding a baby answered the door and I signed for her to hit me on the back.
Hard.
She did.
Again, I signalled.
WHACK.
I shook my head.
She ushered me in and I started coughing even more ferociously while she showed my toddler into the sitting room where hers was sitting and went to boil the kettle in case some warm water would help.
My eyes were streaming and I was hypnobirthing myself into calmness as I methodically tried to force out the enemy at the oesophagus.
Meanwhile, being English, I was shrugging exaggeratedly and smiling wryly, as if to say: “Toothpaste! Who’d have thought it? Perhaps I have an inadequate swallow? An irregular gullet? A prankster of an epiglottis? ‘Hey, I’m here to stop stuff going down your windpipe! Or am I?‘ Do excuse me while I die quietly here in your kitchen. I’m terribly sorry about the mess.”
As you’ll have surmised from the fact I am writing this, a combination of near-death determination in my coughing technique and sipping warm water eventually eased the blockage.
I could finally say to this lovely woman, who I hope will now become my friend:
“Thank you.”
Since writing this, my friend and paediatric nurse Amy at 2boys1mum has informed me that you should “Whack yourself against a wall or Heimlich yourself on the back of a chair”. So there you go!
So, I was cleaning my teeth – pretty standard morning stuff. When I inhaled. And somehow sucked a glob of toothpaste into my windpipe. As I stood gasping by the flung-open window, my toddler ran into the bathroom. I looked at his worried little eyes. Could he perform a Heimlich? I wondered.
Enemy at the Pastes
I’ve always thought “glob” was a pretty distasteful word, and my goodness was I forming a strong dislike to it now. The beastly little goo-bullet was firmly stuck in my air hole and my increasingly desperate coughs were not dislodging it. As if to add insult to injury, the gloopy missile started emitting fumes into my nose so I could barely breathe through that either.
I did not want to be minty fresh. I just wanted to be able to breathe.
“Mummy, water?” said my toddler.
I nodded vigorously, with what I hope was both a praise-conveying and reassuring expression, but fear was more of a grimace of chemical poisoning.
For now, the glob was burning my throat with its “advanced formula” and the water I was sipping was not helping any.
“Mummy, cough?” said my poor baby.
Looking at his beautiful little face, I decided I had to take action. I was still only able to breathe thinly through my nose – which my family will testify has never been my forte, despite its size. My adenoidectomy as a child didn’t seem to have touched the sides.
I felt like I was going to suffocate alone in the house with my child.
So I scooped him up and legged it up the road. By bad luck, I knew that my two closest neighbours were both abroad. I couldn’t talk, so how could I call an ambulance?
I needed direct action.
At the top of the road, I came to a door. I banged on it. A lady holding a baby answered the door and I signed for her to hit me on the back.
Hard.
She did.
Again, I signalled.
WHACK.
I shook my head.
She ushered me in and I started coughing even more ferociously while she showed my toddler into the sitting room where hers was sitting and went to boil the kettle in case some warm water would help.
My eyes were streaming and I was hypnobirthing myself into calmness as I methodically tried to force out the enemy at the oesophagus.
Meanwhile, being English, I was shrugging exaggeratedly and smiling wryly, as if to say: “Toothpaste! Who’d have thought it? Perhaps I have an inadequate swallow? An irregular gullet? A prankster of an epiglottis? ‘Hey, I’m here to stop stuff going down your windpipe! Or am I?‘ Do excuse me while I die quietly here in your kitchen. I’m terribly sorry about the mess.”
As you’ll have surmised from the fact I am writing this, a combination of near-death determination in my coughing technique and sipping warm water eventually eased the blockage.
I could finally say to this lovely woman, who I hope will now become my friend:
“Thank you.”
Since writing this, my friend and paediatric nurse Amy at 2boys1mum has informed me that you should “Whack yourself against a wall or Heimlich yourself on the back of a chair”. So there you go!
So, I was cleaning my teeth – pretty standard morning stuff. When I inhaled. And somehow sucked a glob of toothpaste into my windpipe. As I stood gasping by the flung-open window, my toddler ran into the bathroom. I looked at his worried little eyes. Could he perform a Heimlich? I wondered.
Enemy at the Pastes
I’ve always thought “glob” was a pretty distasteful word, and my goodness was I forming a strong dislike to it now. The beastly little goo-bullet was firmly stuck in my air hole and my increasingly desperate coughs were not dislodging it. As if to add insult to injury, the gloopy missile started emitting fumes into my nose so I could barely breathe through that either.
I did not want to be minty fresh. I just wanted to be able to breathe.
“Mummy, water?” said my toddler.
I nodded vigorously, with what I hope was both a praise-conveying and reassuring expression, but fear was more of a grimace of chemical poisoning.
For now, the glob was burning my throat with its “advanced formula” and the water I was sipping was not helping any.
“Mummy, cough?” said my poor baby.
Looking at his beautiful little face, I decided I had to take action. I was still only able to breathe thinly through my nose – which my family will testify has never been my forte, despite its size. My adenoidectomy as a child didn’t seem to have touched the sides.
I felt like I was going to suffocate alone in the house with my child.
So I scooped him up and legged it up the road. By bad luck, I knew that my two closest neighbours were both abroad. I couldn’t talk, so how could I call an ambulance?
I needed direct action.
At the top of the road, I came to a door. I banged on it. A lady holding a baby answered the door and I signed for her to hit me on the back.
Hard.
She did.
Again, I signalled.
WHACK.
I shook my head.
She ushered me in and I started coughing even more ferociously while she showed my toddler into the sitting room where hers was sitting and went to boil the kettle in case some warm water would help.
My eyes were streaming and I was hypnobirthing myself into calmness as I methodically tried to force out the enemy at the oesophagus.
Meanwhile, being English, I was shrugging exaggeratedly and smiling wryly, as if to say: “Toothpaste! Who’d have thought it? Perhaps I have an inadequate swallow? An irregular gullet? A prankster of an epiglottis? ‘Hey, I’m here to stop stuff going down your windpipe! Or am I?‘ Do excuse me while I die quietly here in your kitchen. I’m terribly sorry about the mess.”
As you’ll have surmised from the fact I am writing this, a combination of near-death determination in my coughing technique and sipping warm water eventually eased the blockage.
I could finally say to this lovely woman, who I hope will now become my friend:
“Thank you.”
Since writing this, my friend and paediatric nurse Amy at 2boys1mum has informed me that you should “Whack yourself against a wall or Heimlich yourself on the back of a chair”. So there you go!
August 26, 2016
A Day May Come: The Lord of the Rings Speech for Mums – Wry Mummy
maximios Blog
A day may come when we will not dream of sleep, won’t begrudge the world lie-ins, especially our spouse.
A day may come when we will eat before 9, not hear a child cry just as fork meets mouth.
A day may come when we won’t cry in the street, when our children have pushed us right to the brink.
A day may come when the bickering will cease, and the silence we crave will pervade the house.
A day may come when we will walk upstairs without a bottle, and come down without a dirty nappy.
A day may come when our backs will not ache, our hands won’t be cracked and our heads will not pound.
A day may come when the washing machine is silent, will not be hidden behind mountains of clothes.
A day may come when we will have 6-8, an early evening added back to our day.
A day may come when we’ll wear dry clean only, our hair won’t be dusty with dry shampoo.
A day may come when we can’t pick you up, when our cuddle is not enough to make your tears dry.
A day may come when we won’t know your every thought, won’t cook your every meal, won’t know if you ate.
A day may come when you won’t sit on our laps, won’t let us in, won’t live in our house.
A day may come when the omnipresence of mums fails, when we see more of our friends, and break all bonds with maternity pants, but it is not this day.
An hour of wolves and shattered dreams when the Age of Mum comes crashing down, but it is not this day! This day we love!