My baby. Little Sister. So far, I’m just a little surprised that she’s still alive.

This child is not yet 18 months old, and I’ve had to call Poison Control 4 times. Let me say that again. FOUR TIMES.

The first time, my husband fed my 6 month old moldy applesauce. Yes, that’s what I said. It was moldy in the fridge, and he didn’t notice, and my young child lapped it right up. I called Poison Control, because, seriously, who knows what mold can do to a 6 month old?

Apparently, nobody but an expert mold guy does, because even the folks at Poison Control sort of shrugged and said, “Well, we don’t really know what is going to happen. If she vomits, call us back. She’s probably fine, though.”

The 2nd time I called, it was because Little Sister got stung by a bee at 15 months of age. I probably over-reacted on that one, but I just wanted to know what to look for in case she was allergic. They told me that the first bee sting wasn’t enough to cause a reaction, and that now I really had to vigilant, because the next one could be the killer I never knew about. (Okay, I’m exagerrating, but you get my drift.)

The 3rd time, I was standing on my porch, watching my beautiful toddler play with nature amongst the fall foliage, and she wandered up to a tree and starting plucking things off of it. I continued to smile, until I realized that the tree was a HOLLY TREE and she was shoving HOLLY BERRIES in her mouth. Dumb, dumb, dumb. The Poison Control People (or the PCP, as I will now refer to them) simply told me to watch for vomiting, and that she would probably be pretty grumpy from an upset stomach. And when her poop was a violent shade of green, I didn’t worry. The PCP had warned me about that.

Today, I was taking a nap when I heard a kerfuffle in the hallway. Turns out that my daughter had wandered into the room where my MIL is staying, and had gotten into a bag of stuff that was not, as she no doubt assumed, brightly colored candies, but were in fact toxic medicated pills of death. My dh found her sitting in the middle of a mini-pill pile, and after we found out that the pill collection included aspirin and benedryl, we made the call.

But here is why I love the PCP. When I told them about moldy applesauce, they did not say, “Clean out your fridge woman!” When I called about the bee sting, the nice man on the other line did not say, “Wow, you are one paranoid chick.” When the PCP asked me, “How can you be sure they are holly berries?” and I was forced to answer, “Um, they came from our bush in our front yard”, she didn’t say, “What the sam hill are you doin’ planting poisonous plants in your front yard, lady?”.

And when the PCP called back tonight to check on the girl, and I assured them my daughter was okay, the woman said, ‘Well, it sounded like she was going to be okay, but your husband seemed to want to make sure.”

I laughed and said, “Well, he was the one who let her wander unsupervised, but really, she was alone for just a minute.”

She could have said, “She’s a TODDLER for crying out loud! You don’t let those things out of your sight for 2 seconds! They are ALL LEGS and NO BRAINS! What kind of father is he, anyway? And where were YOU, huh, mom?”

Instead, she just calmly said, “A minute is all it takes.”

And that, my friends, is the closest thing I’ve ever heard to a rebuke from a company that has told me that if my daughter looks like she’s about to have a seizure, I should call them first so they can send along instructions to the hospital to prep before we get there.

God bless America. And the good folks at Poison Control.