Another parental rite-of-passage - my very first phone call from the school nurse came this morning.
"Hey Amy, it's Chris," (one of our business partners' wives, and she was a postpartum nurse at the hospital when MG was born, too. Small town). "Did you know that I'm the school nurse?"
"Noooo... What's going on?" I said, preparing to get in big trouble for sending MG to school sick. She's had a stuffy nose for days, but no fever, and I don't think it's necessary to keep her home just because she's using her weight in Kleenex every day.
"There was an incident on the playground at recess..."
Now, at this point, I've just gotten out of the shower. I'm dressed but my hair is dripping wet. I have no shoes or socks on. I am very much not camera-ready. My heart stops. I toss Jack in his high chair, run for my shoes, asking, "How bad is it?" Being the calm, collected, rational, reasonable mother that I am, in my imagination they're airlifting her to the nearest children's hospital at this point. I'm listening for the choppers.
"She's ok, but..." it turns out that she and another kid were running on the playground, and her head (behind her ear) met the kid's mouth (front tooth) with enough force to knock his tooth wobbly and cause an impressive amount of bleeding from my baby's noggin.
Chris doesn't think it'll need a stitch, but she wanted me to call the doctor and see if he wants to treat it - since the injury came from another kid's mouth, and mouths are gross and full of germs and bacteria.
"Oh no, was it his permanent tooth?" No, it was a baby tooth. Good. "Is she ok, do I need to come get her?" She was crying for me quite a bit at first, but she's ok now and has returned to class.
"Thanks for taking care of her, Chris. I'll call the doctor."
And I did, and now I'm waiting for them to call back, and waiting for my hair to dry.
There's just never a dull moment around here.