NHS Direct

Yep.
It happened. 
She found something she shouldn't have.

The Poop sits on our bedroom carpet. She's playing with my handbag, as she often does. Quietly, she removes each item from it and places it on the floor. As she is content, I take some clean towels to the bathroom, fold them, put them away, then go into the spare bedroom, get the vacuum out and wheel it onto the landing.
At which point I look back into our bedroom.
To see Betty, still sat in same spot.
But with a scrumpled expression on her face.
Holding a bottle of my perfume.
With no lid on.

I run to her, snatch her up and smell her mouth. Perfume. Oh God.

I race downstairs, pour Boo a bottle of water and force her to drink it, while running through all the things which may need to happen next and simultaneously listing my uselessnesses as a Mother.
I put that perfume in there yesterday. What an idiot.
Oh God. How much has she had? It can't have been much because she wasn't alone long, and she can only have put the nozzle in her mouth. But in biting the nozzle, she could have sprayed a couple of bursts down her throat. Oh God.

While The Poop finishes the water, I start Googling 'ingested perfume'.

HANG ON.
WHAT THE BLOODY HELL AM I DOING? WHY AM A GOOGLING IN AN EMERGENCY?

Right. Stop flapping. Sort yourself out woman. I take a deep breath, gather my thoughts and do the sensible thing. I phone my Mum.
Then she does the actual sensible thing and tells me to phone NHS Direct.


Turns out, after almost an hour of confirming details and describing the incident, someone who probably knows what they are talking about will phone me back. I say probably, as the return call clearly came from someone reading from a manual. I strained to hear the infuriatingly mumbling voice on the other end of the line and frantically scribbled down notes, with an eyeliner, about the symptoms to remain alert for. Meanwhile the The Poop, clearly reeling from her brush with peril, sat giggling in her high chair at the raspberries she was blowing.
Still, I continued to worry. She has just swallowed perfume. Maybe the effects have yet to show?

Then, as if sensing my loitering doubts about her wellbeing, before I had even hung up, Betty stared me dead in the eye, went bright red and breathless, grunted a couple of times, and subsequently piped out a beautifully scented assortment of bum nuggets.

Panic over.