The sequence of emotions that follows seeing the daycare provider’s number on your caller ID in the middle of the day, like I did yesterday, really sucks.
First ring: you get that pit in your stomach and your hands tingle (not in the good way, like when you’ve had a bit too much wine, but the holy crap something horrible just happened way.)
Second ring: you are certain your child has lost an eye, has broken something or has simply stopped breathing altogether. The situation is gruesome and life-threatening, and you haven’t even Googled it yet.
Third ring: you finally answer the phone and the caregiver tells you your child is inconsolable. She doesn’t have a fever, she just won’t stop crying and is so tired and miserable and can you come get her?
The good thing about incorrectly assuming your child is ER-bound is that hearing “your child is crying and miserable” is fabulous news!
Clearly, your child at this moment has needs only her momma parents can fulfill.
About 30 minutes after the call came, Dave pulls up to the house with my poor, miserable baby. From the two giant pair of crossed eyes I see peeking out from the backseat, I see that he’d enlisted Suzianne’s life-size Cookie Monster for back up. That Dave is always thinking ahead.
As I approach the car, I am wringing my hands and mentally preparing for the worst. Then, I hear it…