Monday was the first day back to school after March Break and Boychild, for a change, went off with nary a complaint. That doesn't mean it was easy - oh, no. I had to force a screaming, writhing Girlchild into her pants, socks and outerwear, but Dressing Miss Daisy is a blog for another day. Oh, and navigating the icy, chunky sidewalks with the stroller was about as much fun as shoving toothpicks under my toenails.
But, I digress.
After dropping off Boychild for Day 4 of 7 school days in March, I popped into the school office to double check some emergency contact number information. I wanted to make sure they knew that if I was not answering the phone for some bizarre reason (oh, say, like being outside shovelling 22 metres of snow or aimlessly roaming the streets seeking friendly playgroups) that the next number they should try is Groom-boy's work number. Last time they couldn't reach me they defaulted to our cell phone, which Groom-boy turns off when he's at the office.
Anyhoo, as I'm leaving I'm joking with the secretary saying, "Hahaha...not that I want you to call! Hahaha."
You see where this is going, right?
He almost made it through. That dreaded number didn't pop up on call display until an hour before dismissal time. As much as I hoped they were calling to tell me he had won second prize in a beauty contest and that I should be prepared to collect $10 when I came to pick him up, I was pretty sure they were gonna tell me he was barfing at school. Not because he had shown a single sign of being ill this morning, which he hadn't, but because:
a) I obviously jinxed Day 4 of 7 with my crazy "call me!" notions.
b) We've been surrounded by the barfies all weekend and I figured it was only a matter of time.
c) Getting through seven whole days of school spread across an entire month involves some sort of math probability equation that is just far too complex and random and, therefore, statistically impossible, especially in cold and flu season.
In a way I am relieved about this (because I am an alien from outer space). I really didn't see how we would manage to get through this miserable season without bringing a little vomit into our home. It's only fair, right? Now it's here and we can be finished (eventually) with the whole sordid affair and move on to the bubonic plague or crawling heebie jeebies or whatever is next. Besides, at least it's not strep throat and, so far, there is no sign of dangling limbs, gushing blood or ambulance requirements, so I may be able to avoid going to the local ER.
Now what remains to be seen is whether the rest of us have iron constitutions. I'm hoping this is the same thing I already had a few weeks ago. It would also be really, really nice to avoid having a barfy two year old. That, however, may be too much to ask.