My heroes

Life is fragile.

I frequently lose sight of this tenet.

I sleepwalk through my mundane routines, trying to attain maximum efficiency with minimum emotional strain or effort, and often become obsessed with nagging, unimportant concerns:
- Did I leave the heat on when I left the house?
- Is my parked car going to roll down this hill because I didn't face the wheels toward the curb?
- Did I forget to wash the reds on the "cold" setting?
- I really need to mow the lawn and get the oil changed and replace that light and buy some cat food and...

And, naturally, my obsessions transfer over to my kids, especially my fourteen-year-old:
- Why can't she remember her house key?
- Can't she just once remember to restock the soda when she takes the last one?
- She has a dresser for a reason. The clothes basket is not a furniture item.
- Her bedroom light isn't a star which only gets turned off at the red dwarf stage.

Yesterday, I was liberated from such thoughts. My older daughter developed a medical issue, which seemed fairly routine initially, but then became much more of a concern when her doctor couldn't diagnose the problem and sent us to the hospital for some tests.

It was a day of worry and uncertainty, but it was only a day. Everything turned out okay.

At that juncture, I was left to ponder where parents find that strength when faced with their children's life-threatening and  -altering events. A couple of weeks ago, I drove by Children's Hospital in Seattle, and just watching cars enter and exit the facility nearly made me well up. The word, "hero," gets tossed about with impunity; it's especially overused in the athletic arena, but to me, those sick kids and their parents are heroes.

After yesterday's reality check, I resolved to not let the little stuff matter as much. For example, when the fourteen-year-old gazes up at a flock of migrating birds, and says, "Wow, there must be a lot of birds in the South. Oh, I guess there's a lot of South, too," I won't give her that "Did you really just say that?" look. When she flips a coin and says, "Dad, call it. Heads or...or...opposite of heads," I won't roll my eyes.

I'm just really glad she's okay.

Sick puppies, part III

Today, a parental first: A day of nursing duty for not one, but two, sick children.
The drama began Sunday morning. As I slowly, ever so slowly, gained consciousness after about ten hours of awesome slumber, my fourteen-year-old daughter's bedroom door slammed open. An unnatural,  guttural barking noise followed, trailed closely by the din of water cascading onto the oak floors of the hallway.
Since my nine-year-old plays the role of Action News reporter for anything happening around the household, she quickly bellowed out, "(This just in!) Dad, Zoe's puking! Dad, Zoe's puking!)."
The reporter afforded me absolutely no time to reply, given the frequency of her Paul Revere-like updates. I rushed out to the hallway to witness Zoe expelling the contents of her being in terrible, shaking throes. I wasn't sure whether to approach her and gently rub her back, or provide her the space to maintain a bit of dignity. She hunched over a mere four feet from the bathroom, but it may as well have been a mile away, as this single plot of the hallway had already been established as grocery-gargling ground zero.
Lauryn stood just out of sight, around the corner, much like a gazelle gazing on with curiosity as one of the weaker herd members gets mauled by pack of hyenas.
Finally, the onslaught subsided, and she staggered over to the couch, collapsing into a heap of pale exhaustion. I felt terrible for her, as any parent would, but that didn't stop me from sprinting to the basement for the "barf bowl," a huge, stainless steel industrial bowl, which, if necessary, is capable of containing the unfortunate by-product of an entire fraternity's initiation celebration.
The remainder of Sunday went as might be expected—with the rest of us attempting to gauge Zoe's body language and breathing in order to predict future expulsions. She really didn't need our help, as she became quite attuned to the warning signs, but that didn't seem to detour us from "(insert echo) Vomit Watch, Two-Thousand Nine, nine, nine)."
And then, of course, just before bedtime, her younger sister began coughing and took on a flushed, feverish appearance. She professed to having chills and hot flashes, and rather than diagnose her with the world's youngest case of menopause, or maybe just an attention-grabbing ploy, I steered the well-used thermometer in her direction.
101-degrees later, the Tim Bed-and-Breakfast was open for business, with free saltines for kids under fifteen.
These two kids have each had both H1N1 and regular flu vaccines, but obviously, influenza wears more outfits than Barry Manilow.

I think that's the school calling

Having a sick kid is tough. 

When confronted by an ill child, the working parent (i.e. me) is faced with any number of issues, including:

• Should she stay home from school today, or does she feel sick because she ate really bad food at the fair yesterday, and actually said, "Dad, if it were legal to marry corndogs and onion burgers, I would do it." 

• How much do I spoil her if she does stay home? I don't want to positively reinforce this behavior by fawning over her, but I feel bad for her and she needs to rest and be comfortable.

• If I send her to school and she runs a fever, I look like a self-centered schmuck for exposing her classmates to her illness in that Petri dish known as an elementary school. 

• If I send her to school and she runs a fever, I look like a self-centered schmuck for sending her to school with a fever.

I'd been sitting at my desk at work for about an hour this morning when my cell phone lit up with that all-too-familiar caller ID. "Lauryn has a fever," the school secretary proclaimed. "She's sitting in the office and needs to go home." 

That's when the "pick-the-sick-kid-up-from-school" routine kicked in, as it always does upon receiving that notification. I rode the bus home, retrieved the car, scooped up a flushed-looking Lauryn out of the school office and we drove to Safeway for a couple of movies and some comfort food. I always feel a little self-conscious walking around a grocery store with a school-aged kid during school hours, and that's why I always keep a spare "Proud parent of a home-schooled honor student" T-shirt in the car. 

We completed the routine by driving home, getting her into her pajamas and pink bathrobe and popping in a movie while I whipped up some soup and saltines. 

At that point, the day becomes an opportunity to straighten up the house, fold some laundry and oh, who knows, possibly take a nap. And there's always something cute and cozy about a kid who's feeling a bit under the weather. I feel bad for her and I just want to nestle up next to her. 

Then, of course, we've got to make the decision in the morning about returning her to academia, or repeating the drill again. Parenting: never a dull moment.