Yesterday, the name of my sons’ school flashed as the phone rang. Ugh. Images of vomit on his school supplies or his hands around someone’s throat at recess flashed in my head.
“Hellooooo?” Please say it’s vomit.
My fourth grader had apparently crashed into the fence during a football game and was claiming he broke his collarbone. (A potential copycat injury, as our friend broke his last weekend.)
“Jennifer, he’s sitting in the office with me right now, and we have ice on it.” Her voice was sing-songy as if to say “read between the lines, Mama.”
“Soooo, is this a come-get-him kind of broken collarbone or the kind that ice is making better?”
“Ohhh, I think the ice is doing a goooood job.”
I laughed. Ice is magical.
“But the teacher on recess duty is coming to confirm that he’s okay. How about I call you back after she checks out his shoulder?”
“I’m here if you need me.”
Then she whispered, “He’s very cute.”
Ten minutes later, the phone rang. “Now Jennifer, he thinks he can stay for Chess Club, but he doesn’t want you to be alarmed when you pick him up, because his arm is in a sling.”
What a player.
Two hours later, I picked him up from Chess Club. “Oh goodness! That must have really hurt!”
Dropped his friends at their house. And as I got back in the car to take him home, he pulled the sling off, big grin on his face as he waved his arm around.
“Phew,” he said. “I think it’s better.”