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 fear of a dark, strange house. I really did not want to call his parents in the middle of the night. They had a kid-free evening and were probably swinging from the chandeliers or playing naked Twister. Of course, if they were anything like me, they may have been so excited to be allowed their exhaustion, they smiled at each other before the sun set and fell asleep.
Naturally, the boy had a temp and was mortified that he might throw up in front of all his friends. We made the call. No answer. Visions of two middle-aged people bitterly wiping off whipped cream, 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. But I opened the front door and his sick little cherub limped out, now hysterical upon seeing his father, and dad’s angry 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 needed me. Naked Twister be damned!
My oath lasted all of four days. My oldest 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.
Like most parents, I live for my children. Unless, of course, it’s inconvenient.