The youngest wasn't feeling so hot when she woke up this morning. I could tell immediately because she wouldn't get out of bed. Medically speaking that's a pretty clear sign as far as she's concerned. She just grunted and went back to sleep. Unlike her mother, who steps out of the wrong side of the bed 365 days a year and requires at least a pot of Zabar's blend to get going, my daughter is a morning person. As a toddler she would greet you first thing with a huge smile plastered on her face. If I had been more of a sunrise kind of gal it would have elevated me, but that's another story. There was no moving her this morning, not even Luna, her new hamster, running on the wheel at supersonic speed, could raise her from the pillow. And that was how it went. She barely got dressed, barely ate breakfast, and seemed mopey. When I asked what was going on she told me she felt under the weather but insisted that she was no "malingerer" and wanted to go to school. I was so taken aback by the vocabulary (and busy looking it up) that I said nothing. I told her to call me if she felt bad at school and I would come and get her. By the time she walked through the gate, she seemed more like her peppy self.
Flash forward an hour later to me walking through the door of my apartment to get some work done and the phone ringing: "Hey Mommy, I really don't feel good. Kind of nauseous and a bit of a sore throat." So I put my jacket back on and got back on the subway. So happy that the MTA has put in boards that let you know how long it will be till the train arrives means not having to stand and wonder for half an hour. I paced a bit and got back to the school. My daughter was nowhere to be found. The principal was hanging around -- an Octagenarian superstar who has created one of the best learning environments in a middle school that I have ever come across.
"Strange that she didn't talk to me before calling you," said the principal and walked off to find my daughter. A few minutes later they emerged from a classroom. R looked sheepish.
"I feel a little better now," she said. "Can I just finish this class and then we can leave?" I looked at the principal.
"They're mummifying chickens for Egyptology," she said. "Not my bag."
"Can I? Puhleeze?" my daughter pleaded.
"They're pulling the innards out," the principal explained, and shuddered.
My daughter looked as if someone had promised her a bag of Hallowe'en candy.
"Can I? I feel soooo much better now."
Mummifying will do that.
"If you stay, you stay through the end of the day," I told her. Before I could finish the sentence there was a small cloud of dust (I think the Egyptians used baking soda) and she was gone.
"Apparently, she dreaded the concept of mummifying when she was told they were doing it but she appears to love the practice," said the principal, walking away.
I headed back to spend some more time with the MTA. Got to love the subway -- and got to love a kid who can get into pulling the brains out of a corpse, chicken or not.
You may think you know your kid but really, you don't know anything at all.
