I got a call from my daughter's school last week at about ten in the morning.
"Hi, Mom. I just threw up."
Yes! My favorite kind of calls. Well, those and the kind that come from the emergency room.
"Okay," I said. "Wait for me in the office. I'll be right there."
"But I kind of want to go to art."
Wait, what? She WANTED to go to class after she had a clear "get out of school free" card? She must get that kind of nerdiness from her dad. She made up for it by being out at the car before I'd even parked.
"So, how you feeling?" I asked.
"A lot better. Luckily, we'd packed away our instruments in band and were just waiting for the bell to ring, when suddenly, all this spit came into my mouth. I knew I was going to throw up. So, I ran to the bathroom. Some of it came out my nose. It still kind of burns and every other breath smells like vomit." (Note: I left out some of the gorier details. Thank me later.)
Being a good mom, I said, "Oh, honey. I'm sorry. That's not fun." Then, "You might want to change the reed in your clarinet before you play it again."
Then a thought struck her that rivaled her time hovering over the toilet for worst part of the day. "Oh no! I just ruined my five year no-barfing streak! I have to start all over again!"
Good thing she has her priorities straight.