An Italian-American living la dolce vita in the Deep South

An Italian-American living la dolce vita in the Deep South

Thursday, January 16, 2014

To My Son's Teacher: I Sincerely Apologize

This morning Timothy gets up, eats breakfast, and waits until we get to school to announce that his stomach hurts.

For a mom, this is one of those decisive-take-action-moments.

No it isn't. I don't have enough to go on. A stomach ache is too vague when there are no other underlying symptoms. So I resort to the tactic of let's-try-it-and-see-what-happens.

I drop him off at 8:50 a.m. and I get a call from the school nurse at 8:55 a.m. telling me Timothy's stomach hurts.

Okay then. Back I went. Later, on the drive home -- this time with Timothy -- he enlightens me on what happened in the 55 minutes since I last saw him.

"I threw up," he announces.

"You threw up?" I say. "The nurse didn't tell me you threw up."

"That's because I threw up after I left Mrs. Jackson's office." he explains. "I went back to the classroom to get my backpack, and then I ran to Mrs. Bosch's desk and told her I was going to throw up. And I did. Right next to her desk in her trash can."

Oh dear Lord, I think.

And here is where my apology comes in because in telling the story ... he sounds inordinately proud. Like it was a rite of passage. Like throwing up near the teacher's desk is cool. Like grossing out the entire class is funny.

So I bring him home, tuck him on the couch with water and saltines, and tell him the story of when I was in third grade and threw up in the principal's office.

 My son is way beyond impressed, and now I am the one inordinately proud. I mean, can you imagine? The principal's office.

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