The “your son doesn’t feel well” call from school and other firsts

When your precious child gets his first fever, it’s hard to tell right away if you’re overreacting when you call 911 and request a Medevac Helicopter.

After all, parenting is not an exact science. It’s more like an art.

The kind of art your kids created when they were three – using clumpy paint, watery brushes, and whatever was in their nose at the time. Yet you applauded, declared it a masterpiece, and still stare at it framed on your wall, getting teary-eyed about the experience.

Unlike many mothers who let these memories fade into the oblivion, I wrote my experiences down and can retrieve them whenever I feel like punishing myself. Want to come with me down memory lane? And then you, too, can applaud and get teary-eyed.

Or laugh at me while I do?

I can still remember, back in 2005, when my kids were in kindergarten. I worked right around the corner, trying to teach teenagers how to avoid felony charges and pay attention for longer than three minutes.

A few days into that school year, I received my first phone call from an administrator…

“Your son doesn’t feel well and needs to go home.”

I got to the school in record time, only to walk in on Oldest, who looked up happily and said, “Hi Mommy!”

“Hi Mommy?” I asked, visibly disappointed. “I expected a kid on his deathbed or at least someone coughing up a lung. What’s wrong?”

“My tummy hurts.”

“All right, sweetie.” I remembered others were watching. “Let’s go to the doctor.”

His tummy was fine. While we were there, I thought about my low platelet count and worried he might be borderline anemic as well.

Let’s get tested.

Oldest yelled after getting his finger pricked.

Tears poured out and I felt bad for him. Turns out his iron level is fine. My parents will be so disappointed; they’re dying to serve meatloaf again.

“Mommy, that hurt really, really bad,” he said.

“Well.” I kissed away his tears. “When you can’t stay in school, we have to find out what’s wrong.”

The doctor found an ear infection. So that’s something. I started my child on meds and put him into bed when we got home.

“I can play when my brother comes home, right?”

“No, when we’re sick, we stay in bed all day.”

“This isn’t as great as I thought it would be.”

I sighed. Nothing ever is.

A few hours later, we went back to get his brother. Normally I picked them up in the cafeteria after carpoolers had gone home. On that day, I waited forty-five minutes in a line of empty SUVs and minivans, before his teacher came over and said,
“Oh, I’m sorry. Your son took the bus home.”

The bus? I felt my heart fall into my stomach.

“No he didn’t,” was all I could think to say.

My entire central nervous system threatened to go on strike at any moment.

As his teacher talked, I kept thinking about how I had always told the boys to never, EVER get on a yellow ‘hound. I told them to chain themselves to the nearest pole and demand someone call me immediately. Was my precious five year-old on a bus somewhere, scared and confused? Learning how to spit and tell dirty jokes? What if he got off at some random stop, wandered around a neighborhood, and ran into some “character” campaigning for Charlie Crist… OH MY GOD!?

“What kind of bus did he take?” I asked. “How is it possible he just got on a bus?”

“Wait a minute. Is he in aftercare?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“I’m so sorry! That’s what I meant, then. He’s just in his normal routine. If it’s aftercare, then he’s in the cafeteria. I’ll go get him right now!”

When I saw my little boy come around the corner with two teachers, a paraprofessional, and assistant principal behind him, I could finally breathe again. I thanked everyone for their concern, promised not to sue, and drove home. I actually felt proud to have held it together.

The next morning, Oldest sold me out. When he walked into the classroom, he looked at his brother’s teacher and said, “Yesterday was a mess. When you went to find my brother, Mommy said she was going to have a stroke.”

I’m just glad he didn’t repeat all the curse words.

What can I say? I was a relatively new mom and a little on the high-strung side. Actually, I’m surprised I didn’t have a permanent Xanax-IV hooked up to my arm.

I have calmed down since then and cannot remember the last time my kids called me from school for anything less than a fever…or a forgotten homework assignment.

And I no longer run to the doctor’s office for a simple tummy ache. These days, I simply direct whoever is complaining to the nearest toilet with instructions not to get up until he poops out the problem.

Parenting. It doesn’t get easier. Just different.