This morning, I was very much looking forward to a few hours of peace and quiet in which to do work.
A house to myself.
Grumpy, although we waited in unwanted anticipation for it, did not get the phone call asking him to work, so he was able to perform the swimming duties with toddler. Also the kids got up late, so he took them to school on the way. This lateness gave me a teensy bit of breathing space to complete the lunch making process. Complete with standard yelling. I can’t help it. It’s routine. Also, they were very late up, so the usual was required.
I MUG up, sit down to tidy Desk 1 and get to work, when my mobile rings. It is the Grumpy One.
Instinct. It is one thing that Mother’s have that is often overlooked. My gut lurched, but I hadn’t answered yet, so I have no idea why.
All I hear is “Godzilla something somethign” that sounded an awful lot like “drowned”. Because, well, Grumpy was at the pool. With Chippie. So I was unable to determine why Godzilla would have been there, nor why he would have drowned.
I was a bit baffled at this point. Also, could see my quiet morning whizzing past my eyes and well out of my reach. It may very well have been this paralysing fear of losing my morning that clouded my hearing and judgement.
“Pardon?” I ask.
“Godzilla slammed his finger in the car door. He’s at school, but here’s his teacher’s mobile number. Give her a call and see if he needs to come home, then ring me and I’ll come get him.”
I ring the number some half an hour later. Gotta give him time to see if he really is that injured or not. The main issue I have with him is his penchant for Extreme Histrionics, leaving me in extreme limbo as I really don’t know how badly he’s hurt and will feel absolutely terrible if he is and I haven’t done anything. Other than “Oh for fucks sake, it’s not that bad”, of course. Which I tend to do a lot!
It turns out its the wrong phone number, so I leave it a bit longer, ring the school office who transfer me through to the room, where I am advised “Nope, he’s currently putting the ice pack on the other kids’ heads, so it’s a sure sign he’s ok.”
And I breath a huge sigh of relief that I can do something productive with my day that doesn’t involve eventually deciphering what it is the toddler actually wants to eat at that particular moment. Although, of late, this seems to be the only achievement of my day.
Time for pickup comes around far too quickly and we wander up to the school to collect “bruvvers”.
Catch Godzilla’s teacher in the yard, who advises me you can’t even tell that he’s hurt his finger.
Phew. Because I’d been doing that Mothery Thing all day where you imagine it’s already gangrenous and about to drop off and you’re the worst mother in the world for leaving him at school in a coma etc etc catastrophising.
Which is why I was most surprised when I saw him walking over to me, hangdog expression on face, tears rolling down his cheeks and holding his arm as though he had not only dislocated both the elbow and shoulder, but had also broken both his radius and ulna, and quite possibly fractured his humorus. And the anterior cruciate ligament in his right knee. Just for good measure.
I asked to look at his finger, which caused him to collapse in pain as my breathing was causing it to hurt as he held it three feet from my face. It was – for sympathy purposes as much as protection – encased in a bandaid (yes, it was a so mangled it required nothing more than a bandaid) which I was forbidden to even look at, let alone touch, for it caused much hurtiness.
He limped his way home, stopping often as he buckled under the weight of the pain in his left index finger.
Then it was guitar lessons. I stayed out of the room because I had Chippie with me and trying to play guitar with him in the same room is just not going to happen.
He did a great job.
“Didn’t even know he had a sore finger,” his teacher advised me.
Phew. He must have saved up for the walk home, were asking me to carry his guitar was enough to set off a twinge …