When our first child was born, our pediatrician gave us a sticker with the poison-control number on it. I dutifully stuck it on the phone, but I didn’t give it much thought. Why would attentive parents like us ever need a number like that? After all, our house was childproofed: Cleaning supplies and medicines were locked in cabinets; plastic plugs covered the electric sockets—you get the picture. But our second child, a lovely two-year-old girl, popped our security bubble in the blink of an eye, and we are now eternally grateful for the number on our phone.

I can’t speak for everyone, but I often feel ashamed of my mistakes with the kids. I wish someone had told me before I became pregnant that I would make so many. Then maybe I could have prepared myself for the great humbling that continues to flood over me. But now, instead of covering up my failures, I like to talk about them with other mothers. I need to be reminded that I’m not the only parent who messes up and that parenting is a tough, 24-hour career with on-the-job training.

As parents, we all make stupid mistakes. It’s a fact of life.  Instead of beating ourselves up, my friends and I have developed our own way of dealing with these lapses in judgement: We nominate one another for the “Mommy of the Year Award,” open to any mother who does something that, in hindsight, is just plain dumb. The title of the award is not just an attempt to put a light-hearted face on terrible events; rather, it’s an ironic recognition that we all strive to be perfect Moms yet frequently fall short.  

Now my name has been engraved on the “Mommy of the Year Award.” Louise Orlando: idiot, dunderhead, dope. C’est la vie. All that matters is that we were lucky—and I learned a valuable lesson. Here’s what happened…

We had just returned from the grocery store. My husband and four-year-old son, Graham, and I were unloading the car. Katharine, our two-year-old, climbed into the driver’s seat to play. It all seemed harmless enough. But then Katharine started to spit and cough.

Rushing to her, I discovered a baggie of white pills spilled onto the seat, along with the rest of the contents from the glove compartment. I could see she had spit one pill onto her dress front. I stuck my finger in her mouth searching for other pills. What were the pills? Where had they come from? How many had she eaten? Questions raced through my mind, but I didn’t stop to think. I grabbed her and the bag and ran inside. I asked Katharine how many pills she had eaten. ”One, two, three, four, five,” she replied. My husband tried to coax an answer from her. “One, two, three, four, five,” she repeated.

We thought she had probably sucked on a single pill, found it bitter, and spit it out. But did we really want to gamble with our daughter’s health? So we did what any parent would do: We dialed the number stuck on the phone.

The poison-control operator answered almost immediately. Our conversation went something like this:

“I think my daughter ate some pills.”

“How old is she? What’s her weight?”

“She just turned two and weighs 24 pounds.”

“Okay. What kind of pills did she eat?”

“I don’t know. Advil. Or maybe Tylenol. They’re the only medicines we have in the house.”

“Well, which do you think it was?”

“I don’t know.” I could feel my throat tightening.

“How many do you think she ate?”

“I don’t know.” I was worried and realized that I also sounded pretty stupid. Would I be arrested for endangering a minor?

“All right. How did she get the pills?”

“She was in the car. They were in a baggie that must have been in the glove compartment. I had no idea they were there. What do I do? I have Syrup of Ipecac.”

“No, no, don’t induce vomiting. You’ll only worsen the situation. How many pills do you think she ate? If it’s Advil, she should be all right unless she ate more than 10. Tylenol is another story.”

“I told you I don’t know what they are. Wait, the pills have a number on them. Can you tell from the number?” I read it to her.

“Okay, that’s Tylenol, 500 mg. How many do you think she ate?”

“Listen, I don’t know. I’m not even sure where she found them. Just tell me what to do.” Meanwhile, Katharine is screaming in the background because Graham is scolding her for eating pills. My husband is losing his cool and is raising his voice telling them both to be quiet. I am now certain the operator is dialing the police. The kids will be sent to foster homes.

“Here’s the thing,” the operator continued. “If she took three or more Tylenol she can suffer kidney and liver failure.”

“Oh God. What do I do?” My voice was starting to quiver.

“Remain calm. Nothing will happen for a few hours. Take her to the emergency room and have her blood tested. They’ll probably make her drink some charcoal. You really don’t know how many she ate?”

“I don’t. I think she just tasted them and then spit them out.”

“I’m going to call the hospital and tell them you’re coming. Don’t speed. Stay calm. You have plenty of time to get there.”

At the hospital I explained the situation three more times, once to the admitting nurse, once to the staff nurse, and finally to the doctor. By the time I spoke to the doctor I was near tears, feeling foolish, and frightened for Katharine.

The doctor also thought Katharine had probably just sucked on the Tylenol and spit it out, but she couldn’t take that risk. Out came the liquid charcoal. (Charcoal binds with any drugs in your stomach slowing them from getting into your bloodstream.) Katharine needed to drink the black sludge. The nurse mixed up a little cocktail of charcoal and apple juice.

“Mmmm, doesn’t that look good!” the nurse said encouragingly. Katharine looked skeptical but dutifully drank three sips before refusing the rest. The nurse then used a syringe to try squirting it down her throat. That left Katharine and me covered in black ooze. Katharine was getting increasingly upset, but the nurse insisted she drink more; otherwise, she would have to stick a tube down her throat to administer the charcoal. No way, I thought. I begged Katharine. The nurse brought in a stuffed Barney. Barney drank. Katharine drank. Barney drank. Katharine insisted Barney drink more, but finally Katharine did drink enough to make the nurse happy. Now we just had to sit tight for four hours (the time it takes for Tylenol to show up in your blood).

Four hours in a windowless emergency room with a toddler and only a stuffed Barney for entertainment was nearly enough to make me drink the remaining charcoal cocktail. It was truly excruciating and gave me way too much time to replay the events of the day. (My husband had left us at the hospital to take Graham to a neighbor’s house.) So when the four hours were up and the nurse walked in to take Katharine’s blood I was relieved. Of course, taking blood from a toddler is no picnic but Katharine did her best to remain still and quiet. She seemed aware that she had done something wrong and that we were trying to fix it.

As we waited the last hour for her test results, I couldn’t help feel that my husband and I had subjected her to this torture unnecessarily. It was inconceivable to me that a toddler—particularly a picky eater like Katharine—would find the bitter taste of even one Tylenol palatable. Couldn’t we have spared our family this Friday-night ordeal at the hospital? But what if our gut feelings were wrong? Our initial mistake was one thing, but we couldn’t have lived with ourselves if we had gambled on Katharine’s health and lost.

Four hours later, the test results confirmed that Katharine had not eaten any of the pills. With a great sigh of relief, we signed the release forms and headed home.

With two active children I realize there may well be more dunderheaded mistakes in our future. (By the way, we’ve combed the car, my purse, backpack, and the house looking for baggies, bottles, anything that could be easily opened and consumed and either tossed it or moved it.) I realize that I can’t protect our kids from everything, although I won’t stop trying. So when I make my acceptance speech for Mommy of the Year, I’ll just have to remind everyone that being a parent isn’t about not making mistakes, it’s about what you learn along the way.

Louise Orlando is a freelance writer and editor. Her career goal is to finish writing the book she started nine years ago (that would be, before children) about traveling across Africa with her husband. Once city dwellers, Louise, her husband Andrew, Graham (8), Katharine (6), and their yellow Labrador now live on the Eastern Shore of Virginia along with two cats, 12 chickens, a rooster named Big Red, one guinea fowl, and the occasional stray sheep.