Yesterday, as I was being an industrious person, doing my part to earn a paycheck, I get a phone call from M. It’s a phone call that most working mothers dread. “Matthew is sick. They want us to pick him up from daycare.” By “us” M means me because he’s like 400 miles away somewhere in this great state of Texas. So I hastily pack up and drive 35 minutes to pick Matthew up.
I get to the daycare and he’s lying on a mat in the director’s office looking drained and tired. Brenda tells me that he does not have a fever and when asked if he has a tummy ache, Matthew says no. She thinks it's best if I take him home and let him rest since he seems lethargic and not acting like his chatterbox self. All I can do is agree even when I’m thinking, “I pay you how much to look after my child, and you expect me to take off work and take him home every time he claims that he’s tired?” But that’s not the point of this post. So I tell her, yes, I’ll take him home. As I’m telling her this, I look over at Matthew (still oh so tired on the mat). He gives me a sly smile, and it all comes to me.
The day before, our neighbor’s daughter was sick so she got to stay home from school. The night before, as I was putting him in bed, he told to me that he needed chicken soup because he wasn’t feeling well. I told him to go to sleep.
My 4-year old has just punked me and the entire staff at Crème de la Crème. As we walked over to get his stuff from his classroom, I told him to look at me and tell me the truth. I asked if he was really sick or if he just did not want to be at school. I say him struggle to find an answer and he said, “Both.”
Needless to say, when we got home, he was happy as a clam and was not so tired anymore. Can a 4-year old win an Oscar?
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