Foo_ball, you bet!

I was awakened by the ringing phone this morning at some few minutes after nine. My sweetheart was calling to say that my son was in the nurse's office at school, and I should probably call and check on him. I could hardly focus on the message for the drool streaming off my chin and the enormous sleep rocks in my eyes. Somewhere in the karma of it all there should be a rule that says only one person in a household can be sick at a time, but alas the nurse said that the children in my son's class had requested that he be sent to the office, so that they need not put up with his honking and sniffing and whining. I guess that makes it my job, just because of the genetic relationship and stuff.

I tried to make myself as presentable as necessary for picking up someone from the nurse at an elementary school. A career in education has taught me nothing if not: Never linger in the most germ laden place in God's creation. I washed my face, dug the sleep death crystals out of the corners of my eyes, and pulled my hair back in a 30 second ponytail. I was a bit concerned that I would back out of the driveway directly into the house, but Emmanuel, God was with me and I managed to make the street without taking out the corner of the laundry room.

My son has the ability to look like a nauseated great dane. He is between sizes right now- all feet and toe nails, elbows, and at least for the moment a big wet nose. I knew something was terribly wrong when he walked past the refrigerator opting instead for the Kleenex box. I fell back to sleep, and we shared the couch companionably for a couple of hours.
Finally, he said he wasn't hungry at lunch time.

I considered an ambulance for a moment, but threatened him with a nap and missing football practice. My first thought was that he would rather do anything than miss a meal or a practice, but I was surprised again. He went to bed with a book and fell asleep within 15 minutes. I woke him after 3 hours and he talked to me, but fell back to sleep before I could get him out of bed. I gave him another 45 minutes and then made him get up. His breath smelled of great dane, and there were tears in his eyes when I told him he had to call his coach if he wasn't going to practice.

Now, his coach is the stereotypical Texas coach- loud, scary, disciplined, rough, but I have insisted to my son that he is scared of the wrong person. Coaches may come and go, but moms pick you up from school when you're sick or something like that. He went to put on his gear. I didn't exactly make him go to practice; I just wanted to make sure he was alive. It takes 20 minutes or so to get to the practice field and the longer we rode the more he chattered. He may be sick, but I know him. He's my great dane. Play football:Don't play football: I don't care, but don't scare me like that. When he starts skipping lunch, well- that makes me worry, but not now. I've settled him in with chicken noodle soup, hot chocolate, and crackers. That's my boy- he can do anything, he notices everything, and he doesn't miss a meal.