* * * Wednesday afternoon, the spud came home from school feeling a little under the weather. She took a nap, and when we called her for dinner, she asked if she could put her dinner in the fridge and eat it later, then went back upstairs and back to bed. Around 7, the barfing began. She threw up two or three more times, complaining about how much her stomach hurt, and went to bed very, very early (like, 8:00). Fred, being the worrywart (seriously, I think I worry a lot, but he really takes the cake) wondered whether we should take her to the emergency room, and I finally said “Did your mother take you to the doctor every time you threw up? Because mine sure didn’t. In fact, even when I had a temperature so high that I was high off it, I didn’t go to the doctor.” I mean, she called the doctor, but she didn’t bundle me up and run to the emergency room or anything. Which for some reason reminded me of the time I was 6 or so – maybe even younger – and I felt I wasn’t getting enough attention, so I decided to pretend that I had passed out on the floor. So there I was laying on the floor, half in and half out of my bedroom door, and the floor was uncomfortable. I went and got my blanket and put it on the floor, then arranged myself atop the blanket, looking – I was sure – as if I had passed out. Various family members walked by me, but they didn’t seem too concerned about me, the heartless bastards. Also, around the same age, I was sick and there was someone in the bathroom, so I threw up on the floor outside the bathroom door and I GOT IN TROUBLE. For barfing on the floor. “Why didn’t you KNOCK ON THE DOOR and tell (whoever was in the bathroom) that you were going to throw up??” my mother asked. Uh, ’cause I was too busy actually throwing up? Anyway. So the spud was sick on and off Wednesday night, and I figured she wouldn’t end up going to school Thursday. Thursday morning, Fred woke her up and asked her how she felt (“Better”) and if she wanted to go to school. She said she did, and headed off to take a shower. A while later, she knocked on the bedroom door. “My stomach still hurts,” she said. “Go back to bed,” I said. “Do I have to go to school?” she said. “Would I tell you to go back to bed if I was going to make you go to school??” I said. She allowed as how that made sense, and went back to bed. Fast forward to 10:20, after I had exercised and was about to eat breakfast. She came into the computer room and said “Can I go to school?” Wuh? The child WANTED to go to school. She had a free pass to stay home all day, and she WANTED TO GO TO SCHOOL. Clearly she is not of my genetic material, because when I was her age, if I had the chance to stay home from school for the entire day, I not only would have taken it, I would have done my best to get to stay home the NEXT day as well. Granted, the reason she wanted to go to school was because she had a couple of tests she didn’t want to miss (!), but that wouldn’t have stopped me. After all, I arranged to take my Latin I final early so I wouldn’t have to get up early the day after the Scorpions concert to take it. I guess you could say school wasn’t really my top priority…
(Picture by Fred)