And "Mother Of The Year" Goes To...

Today, I faced one of those no-win dilemmas that only a working mother can appreciate: what do you do with a child that’s slightly off, but not really sick? Do you miss yet another day of work, or Motrin him up and send him to day care?

I had inklings of trouble last night when the boy refused to eat more dinner than he normally does. Usually he'll grudgingly consume about 3/4 of a meal, but last night, after a few bites of home-cooked (actually, Boston Market-purchased) chicken, he threw in the fork. Not even the usual bribes of cornbread or sliced apples on the couch could entice him to eat more.

Much later, I was awakened from a dead sleep at 4am with the same child looming over me in the dark.

"Mommy," he said, "I'm either hungry, or I'm going to throw up."

Ever optimistic, I went with "hungry." Gave the kid two slices of toast and stuffed him back into bed. Tried to nap between his subsequent intermittent wanderings back into our room. So when it was time to actually get up, I was tired and short-tempered. I knew the kid wasn't quite right, but I had a lot of work to get done. And he seemed OK - no fever or other outward signs of illness, and when he started asking for chocolate milk and Munchkins I chalked up his droopy demeanor up to being tired. So Manager Dad and I made the executive decision to soldier on and take him to day care.

I telecommute on Fridays, and as I conducted my morning business, I kept a nervous surveillance eye on my cell phone. My paranoia was not unfounded as I received The Call at approximately 10am. I was most displeased to hear the voice of Nice Day Care Lady #1, aka The One Who Usually Calls If Your Child Is Sick Or Injured.

'Hello,' said NDCL#1, 'I am just calling you to let you know The Boy is not quite himself today.' 'What's wrong with said boy?' I asked. 'Well, he's kind of mopey,' was the answer. 'He's not participating in activities.'

Now, she didn't directly ASK me to come pick him up, but the sentiment was clearly there. I could feel a warm cloud of expectation wafting through the wireless spectrum as I questioned the situation more closely. 'Does The Boy have a fever? Is there coughing, sneezing, or sniffling? Is he expelling bodily fluids from any orifice at a more alarming velocity than normal?'

'No, he's just very quiet today,' she said. (Perceived subtext: ‘I can’t believe she’s not already on her way here.’)

Upon this confirmation, Mother of the Year (that's me, if you hadn't guessed) quickly said, 'OK then, call me back if any of those things happen.' And I unceremoniously hung up.

I am VERY protective of my telecommuting arrangement and don’t want to lose the privilege. I don't ever want people to think I'm not pulling my weight on my days from home. I am many things on my days from the home office (poorly groomed, a Peapodder, folder of laundry on conference calls, silent hostess of various repairpersons or cleaning ladies), but I am NOT a slacker.

So while on occasion I'll make quick stop at the horrible Grade A on Newfield (motto: We're Not Afraid To Sell You Rotten Produce") after kid dropoffs, my main indulgence is my hourlong lunchtime workout. For one glorious hour, I turn off the cell phone and squeeze in a good, hard run. I come back re-energized and smelly, and proceed to work furiously in a pool of my own sweat for the rest of the day. (I pray to the Cubicle Gods that cheap videoconferencing remains an elusive invention.)

If it's a nice day, I run outside - no problem. If it's a rainy or cold day, I have to go to the track at my gym. And my gym is where The Boy goes to day care. And I have to walk right by his classroom to get to the track.

Problem.

So I get dressed for my run and make the 2-minute drive over to the gym. I walk slowly into the building, willing myself to be invisible. I peer cautiously down the hallway - looks clear. I walk quickly through the Hot Zone - that bare stretch of hallway where there are no doorways or large plants under which to take cover.

I was just about home free, standing at the doorway to the gym, when I heard the cheery voice of Nice Day Care Lady #2, aka The One Who Usually Calls About Unpaid Bills and Unfilled-Out-Forms.

'Mother of The Boy!' she chirped.

Daaaaaaammmmmmmn.

I lifted my hand off the doorknob and took a deep breath. 'How is the boy in question?' I asked.

'Oh, he is really miserable. He's been lying on the couch all morning. I'm glad you came to get him.'

Guilt began to breech the Great Wall between my unconscious and conscious minds, because, well, I really hadn’t come for that particular reason. But as Mother of the Year, I gave it my best college try. 'Oh, yes, of course!' I said. ‘That is exactly why I’m here! Ahem, by the way, has he actually thrown up or gotten a fever yet?'

Puzzled, NDCL#2 said, 'No...but he's just really not himself.'

As an only child of divorced parents, I can be nothing if not self-centered. So I quickly came back with- 'OK – I’ll just do a quick workout, and I'll take him with me on the way home.'

Looking me straight in the eye, NDCL#2 said, (and honestly, it was without malice) 'Ok, I'll tell The Boy that you're in the building but won't be picking him up for another hour or so.'

Checkmate. Well played, NDCL.

And so, sufficiently infused with guilt, I begrudgingly slunk into the classroom to get The Boy. Who, by the way was napping peacefully.

So I woke him up, brought him home, and parked him on the couch, draping an array of towels in his immediate projectile area. (I have found this to be a primitive, yet effective, barf defense mechanism.) He then proceeded to watch two full-length movies (Ice Age and The Empire Strikes Back, if you are keeping score) consume one bagel, eight ounces of Fruit Punch Gatorade, and two bananas.

Nary a chunk was blown.

I, on the other hand, wound up tired, guilt-laden, unexercised, unshowered, with laundry unfolded, and I didn’t get any work done until the kids went to bed, so of course, I had to stay up late and will feel even worse tomorrow.

Of course, I don't want The Boy to REALLY be sick, but the fact that I brought him home when he was fine to stay at day care just makes me feel like a complete, 360-degree failure. Because I knew he wasn’t running at 100% and I made him go to day care anyway. And after all that, I STILL short-changed my work, and despite the fact that there was no malice in my interactions with the NDCLs today, I still feel like a complete dink.

Oh well. I might not be Mother of the Year, but luckily, The Boy has no other frame of reference. I’m the only mother that he has. And if nothing else, I got some Grade A snuggles and kisses. And I’m all caught up on on my Spongebob episodes.