Poison, Decapitation and Cuts

The last two days of our lives have been filled with these grisly adjectives.

If you are faint of heart, I suggest not reading on (I'm only being dramatic, really).

First, the poison, as in Poison Control with Vicky.

There I was, efficiently cleaning the kitchen from the breakfast mess and unloading the dishwasher from the previous night's dinner, all to the soundtrack of Jane's antics and Elliot's banging toy.

Around the corner he came to pull on my pajamas and alert me of his approaching nap time when I caught a glimpse of his "toy".

It was a Wallflower. You know, from Bath and Body Works, a dispenser of fragrant oil?

I screamed, snatched it away from him and promptly sniffed his hands and little mouth: the fragrance of bamboo wafted from them.

So I had to call Poison Control through my tears (but only after I tried the less dramatic route of sister who recommended pediatrician, who in turn recommended Poison Control).

It was my first go. And Vicky was lovely and calming.

P.S. Elliot's fine.

The next day we had a decapitation.

I was trying to be lovely and hardworking, very Doris Day, when I undertook the task of the somewhat involved dinner of Feta and Spinach-Stuffed Chicken.

I'd been working on the intricacies of the meal for an hour when I was ready to stuff my mixture into my prepared chicken. That's when I noticed a darker leaf of spinach in the mix.

It wasn't spinach.

Instead, it was a decapitated beetle.

I tell no lies.

You know how there's an urban legend of a mother gaining super strength to lift a vehicle off her child? Something similar happened to me: My mortification and paralyzing fear of bugs came to a standstill as I scooped the Reign of Terror victim from my culinary masterpiece.

I was distraught.

I spent the next 25 minutes searching for the rest of him (or her).

And only after three separate sources assured me it was OK to eat, I finished the dinner.

Needless to say, I didn't eat dinner last night.

Then the Cut.

Nothing major.

I simply cut Elliot's hair.

The description just made for a nice rounding out of the title.

Although I did do it myself without any help to hold the screaming child. And I'd post a photo, but I don't think you'll see much of a difference. You see, I'm super vigilant on the baby mullet, so he gets regular haircuts.

But I would think the moral of this story is that I need to not quell my 50s-style duties. They seem to hold only horrific ends (but luckily not in the haircut scenario).