Sick kids

At our slumber party last weekend one of the boys came to me at 1:30am and said he was sick. He was crying and I was quick to dismiss it as homesick or scared of the dark. I really did not want to have to call his parents in the middle of the night. They were probably swinging from the chandeliers with a childless house and I was going to spoil all their fun. Of course, if they were anything like me, they were probably so excited to be allowed their exhaustion they smiled at each other before the sun set and fell asleep. I digress.

Of course the boy had a temp and was mortified that he might throw up in front of all his friends. Ultimately, we made the call to mom and dad. We tried the cell and the hard line - no answer. Visions of two middle aged people climbing down from the chandelier, cursing the whole time, danced through my head.

It took about twenty minutes for one of them to pick up the phone. The boy spoke to his mom. He was really crying hard. Still, just like me, he had to sell her on the idea that he was sick. About forty minutes later, his dad shows up at our house. You could tell by the way he slammed the car door he was not happy to have been called off the chandelier. But the front door opened and our sick child limped out, now hysterical upon seeing his father, and dad’s angry demeanor melted. It was heartbreaking.

I promised right then I would never doubt my kids when they called at an inconvenient time to tell me they were sick. My oath was broken only five days later. My oldest son called from school. He thought he broke his thumb and wanted me to take him to the hospital. If this was true, I reasoned, the school would have called an ambulance. I told my darling, brave, crying child that unless there was blood or bone I wasn’t leaving the office. I wasn’t even torn, there was no way I was leaving work.

I live for my children, unless of course it’s inconvenient.


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