I think worse than the call from school that my kid is running a fever, has developed a rash or has puss pouring out of her eyes (which have all happened) is the call from school that my kid “just isn’t himself” today. As a parent, I don’t have a choice on what to do for the former – I have to retrieve the kid from school per the rules in the school’s handbook. For the latter, though, I do have a choice, one that generally leans toward having my kid stick it out because, well, I do have to work. To say it that bluntly shouldn’t suggest that I don’t have a problem with that choice. I do. I feel like a heel. I feel like a bad parent, and I feel like school teachers and administrators are judging me as such. Whether they actually are or not doesn’t matter – my own perception is enough.
On Monday, I got such a call. Cal’s eyes were bothering him. They were red, swollen and watery, and he was applying wet paper towels to them to soothe them. I didn’t “need” to pick him up but “if I happened to be working from home,” maybe I could.
I wasn’t. I was a good hour and a half away with meetings and stuff I needed to get done. This would set me back a bit. In the end I decided I would compromise and just leave work early to get him. I’d attend my meetings and just take work home with me to tackle that evening. I also set up a doctor’s appointment for that evening in case there was something more wrong with him than the common cold.
This, of course, posed some transportation hurdles to get over since Dan and I commute together to and from the train. I’d need to get Cal and Ella, hang out at home for a bit and then motivate us all back to the car to go pick up Dan from the train station.
When I got to school to get Cal just after 4pm, I was pleasantly surprised at how bad he actually looked. History tells me the school teachers are pretty liberal in their judgment and description of how bad my “not-himself” kid’s condition is. In Cal’s case yesterday, the teacher’s description was spot on. Red, swollen eyes. Watery. Even his cheeks were red. Clearly he had been rubbing them a lot that day. My eyes teared just looking at him. Fortunately, he ran to me with a big smile on his face (bless his heart), happy to see me pick him up early and ready to get out of school for the day. Ahh… I knew I had made the correct decision to pick him up early, confirmed he was okay and concluded that he really did need to see a doctor.
We proceeded to complete the plan and grabbed Ella, went and hung out at home for a bit and then headed back out to pick Dan up from the train station. On the way there, the doctor’s office called and said they had a cancellation, could we come in 20 minutes earlier. With that new schedule, the idea that we just grab some dinner after getting Dan and then all heading to the doctor’s office popped into my head. Dan was amenable to this and suggested to everyone in the car, “how about C-H-I-K-A-F-I-L-A?” to which I whispered, “you’ve got an extra A in there” and let the thought that a C might be missing, too, go. Hopeful that Cal would figure out what he was spelling and providing a lot of assistance in getting him to figure it out, Dan announced we’d be going to Chick Fil-A but that we wouldn’t have time to play in the playground there because we had to get to the doctor. This was cool with Cal. Afterall, he had to get to the doctor who was going to “make him feel better.”
Once inside Chick Fil-A, Cal picked our table, which was the one right outside the window to the playground, with a clear view of all of the action in the playground. Against my better judgment, we stayed and ate our dinner there, having to fend off only a couple of Cal’s requests to play in the playground.
Finished eating before Ella and unable to actually go into the playground area, Cal had his face plastered against the window to the playground, presumably living vicariously through the little 15-month-old running around. The youngster eventually noticed Cal’s gaze and smiled. Cal, 3-1/2 and so much bigger than this kid, responded sweetly, scratching the window with his pointer finger, as I might to a little puppy, “Hey, Little Buddy.”
Dan and I, of course, cracked up. Our conjunctivitis-stricken Cal may have not felt well, but he certainly was himself.
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