As any parent with one or more kids in daycare will confirm, it’s always a sinking feeling when the name of the daycare center comes up on your caller ID. (In my experience, they rarely call just to chat about how terrific your offspring are.)
Fairly early yesterday, one of the infant room teachers called with the news that Nicholas had developed a mysterious, rapidly spreading rash – it started on his belly and within a couple of hours had migrated to his arms, legs, and back. But it didn’t seem to be bothering him in the slightest – he wasn’t sick, or feverish, or cranky. Just blotchy.
After calling his doctor, we decided to keep him in daycare and, with the blessing of the infant room teachers, take a wait-and-see attitude.
So when the daycare called again near the end of the day, I feared the worst. “Jen? Nicholas has turned into an oozing 11-lb. scab – I think maybe you should come get him now. We’ve quarantined him in the supply closet.”
But no, this time around it was Lorelei’s teacher. And the call wasn’t about Lorelei per se, but about her shoes, which had somehow gone missing after naptime (probably grabbed by a chronically overtired parent barely able to keep his or her eyes open, much less able to distinguish the fine subtleties of one pair of Dora the Explorer sneakers versus another).
“So we’ve tracked them down and you’ll have them back tomorrow – but I wanted to explain why Lorelei is wearing her boots for the rest of the day.”
At pickup, we had Kid in Boots and Kid in Spots. Oddly enough, however, Nicholas seemed to be in even better spirits than usual – I think he enjoyed the extra attention and concern he was getting from the pretty daycare ladies. Hey, would anyone else like to come over and take a gander at my spotted belly? It’s awfully cute, you know.
Lorelei’s shoes were, as promised, waiting there when I dropped the kids off this morning. Nicholas remains somewhat splotchy but unfazed.
And we live to fight another day.