Chuckle #397 | March 10th, 2010
When the School Nurse calls, ACT INNOCENT!
“Hello Mrs. Blood?”
“Yeees?”
“This is The School Nurse.”
(Noooooo, not The Nurse! Don’t let it be lice, don’t let it be lice, don’t let it be lice… Please, a broken leg, disfiguring planter’s warts, missing medical forms, menstruation… ANYTHING but lice.)
“We have a little situation here,” adds The Nurse.
“What kind of situation?” I ask, playing along.
“How exactly was your daughter feeling this morning?” asks The Nurse, clearly probing for incriminating evidence.
“She was great, perfectly fine. Healthy as a hog at the trough,” I reply, somewhat defensively.
(Despite what our school nurse thinks, we parents are not ALWAYS criminally negligent when it comes to our kids’ healthcare. Just sometimes. When we have longstanding lunch plans. Or a big presentation at work. Or an appointment with the cable guy.)
“Well, she’s in my office now…” (Long accusatory pause for effect.)
(Can’t she just spit it out for goodness sakes? Read me my Miranda’s and get on with it! Why do school nurses always give us the third degree? There must be a required class on parental interrogation. Or do they just instinctively know how to make us squirm?)
“It seems that we’ve had a little visitor,” says The Nurse enigmatically.
(Oh oh, that could be lice, but it could also be menstruation. Or a rash, a big embarrassing pimple; chiggers, bedbugs, fleas - please, any insect but LICE! And nurses should NOT use euphemisms. They are healthcare professionals for the Love of Pete! Who was Pete anyway? Are we talking biblical Peter or another Peter, or was it Mike? I can’t remember. Oh wait, the nurse is talking again…)
“…given the situation, I think its best if you come and pick her up. She’ll be waiting in the office.”
(Oh no, what did she say was wrong?! Darn those maddeningly irresistible etymological puzzles. If I have to ask the nurse to repeat what she said, she’ll know I wasn’t paying attention. I’ll be put on the bad parent “social services” watch list (if I’m not already on it.) And every little stomachache, every bruise, every time my klutzy daughter “falls” down the stairs, I’ll get the official call.)
“Mrs. Blood?”
(Let it be warts. Or a DEEP paper cut. Please.)
“Yes, yes. I’m here. I’m on my way. Thanks for, uh, being there, in uh, situations like this. Knowing that you are on the job is very reassuring. You are a special person.”
(There, I didn’t give anything away. And since I’ve been given the right to remain silent, no one can make me define “special”.)
