I get called out of a meeting today by my 9-year-old daughter's school. According to them, she had been throwing up and couldn't stay in school for the rest of the day. I, like every other mom on the planet, am instantly suspicious, as my daughter showed absolutely no signs of being ill today, most notably when she hoovered her way through a man-sized bowl of Honeycomb cereal this morning. So, in uber-suspicious Mom-mode, I ask to speak to her, and after several minutes ascertain that there had been no vomit, just a bit of spitting, and I told her in so many words to suck it up and finish the day. No sooner do I sit back down again in my meeting does my phone start ringing again, with the school secretary telling me (in that tone of voice that suggests exactly what kind of mother she thinks I really am) that my daughter is sitting in the office with her head in a bucket, and would it be too much trouble to ask me to come and pick her up.
I'm an asshole.
Or so I thought, until I got the little con-artist home, and after much observation of her reading a magazine with her feet in the air, giggling with the cat, and showing no sign whatsoever of any illness, I realized I was looking at, well, myself at her age. Bugger. How the hell do you get mad at a kid for doing exactly what you did when you were the same age because the idea of spending another minute in school made you want to vomit? (Or, pretend to vomit.)
I hate getting older. Every day is another "so that's how my parents felt" moment.
*Love Rollercoaster - Red Hot Chili Peppers*