My baby got his first non-doctor prescribed ouchie today and I was a wreck. It didn’t help that I was 25 minutes away at work when it happened and that when I tried to call the sitter back, she didn’t pick up. I’ll admit it, I had a teeny tiny panic attack. Before my son was born I probably would have been so ashamed of freaking out over something so seemingly small that I wouldn’t have even mentioned it to my husband for fear of indefinite mocking. Now though, I admit to the whole world that my heart skipped more than a few beats when I heard the words bee sting.
The stinging itself was a pretty improbable situation. He was laying on the living room floor. A bee managed to get in the house and it didn’t even land on him. It instead decided to walk across the floor, colliding with the path my baby was on. My son, being the curious little being he is, thought it was a new play toy, undoubtedly meant to be popped right into his mouth, so he reached out and grabbed it. The resulting sting sent him into a fit, which amazingly subsided by the time my sitter got ahold of me 10 minutes later.
The boo-boo occurred while I was on my prep period, which is pretty lucky timing. My phone actually rings into my classroom then and I can even answer my cell without kids chiding me over the faint ringing. At what I can only assume was the exact moment my son got stung, I decided to head downstairs to make copies. In an 85 minute prep, I was out of my room for maybe 8 minutes and that’s when it happened. When I got back to my room and saw the voicemail light on, my son was the farthest thing from my mind. Instead, my heart sunk a little figuring it was a parent calling to complain about the project I refused to let kids make up or to make excuses for their kids in an attempt to get an project extension. When instead I heard the calm voice of my sitter telling me my son had been attacked by the viscious honey monger, I grabbed my cell and started dialing.
Even though he was completely calm when I called, breathing fine and had only a bit of swelling on his hand, I still called the pediatrician. Before she’d even gotten ahold of his sitter had administered baby Tylenol and a baking soda poultice, but it didn’t matter. The nurse tried to assure me everything was fine, but when she had to call me back about the benedryl dosage and I couldn’t get my sitter back on the phone, horrible thoughts of my baby not breathing and being rushed to the hospital flashed through my head. Even then I knew they were ridiculous as she would have called, but it didn’t matter, they invaded my brain and wouldn’t get out.
I called her twice to no avail and sat for an incredibly long time (probably only minutes now that I think about it) waiting for a return call. It turns out he’d not only been stung but also decided to blow out his diaper and she was completely cleaning his clothes, a blanket and I’m pretty sure getting ready to fumagate her couch. He was already happy and actually down for a nap.
Despite her reassurance, I called again during lunch. He was, of course, still fine. I also left school the second the teacher bell rang and rushed to her house. As expected, he was smiling and giggled when he saw me. All that worry and panic for nothing I guess.
Still, I know the next time she calls with something, even something minor, I will probably have the same heart palpatations. I now realize why my dad got so angry when he didn’t know where I was or my mom would burst into the nurses office hand immediately heading to my forhead whenever she got a call to come pick me up. The next 18 years or so are going to be rough on my nerves.