Her: “Well, we had a little problem today…” in her serious, purring voice.
I’m thinking, OMG, he’s got a broken bone, peed in the middle of the classroom, all these things running through my mind. There is no rhyme or reason to this woman’s calls home. One time Simon cut both his knees to where he nearly needed stitches, and it was a shock to see him come off the bus all bloody, and no phone call from the school. But she called once when he stuck his tongue out after a fellow classmate called him a bad name. So I just never know.
Me: “Uh-huh..” I’m growing more alarmed by the second, grabbing my car keys, ready to fly down there to pick him up to rush him in to get stitches.
Me: “Yeah?!” I’m yanking my coat off the hanger in my closet.
Me: “YEAH???!!!” I’m shoving my feet into my shoes.
Her: “..and he cut off a piece of his hair,” she finished anxiously, as though he had cut out his own eyeball.
Me: “Oh.” WTF am I supposed to say?
That afternoon I had to squint to see where he’d cut it, he had to point it out to me. He’d cut like 5 strands maybe a half-inch off.
UPDATE: This was a previous post here on my blog, and I eventually learned that she only called me when it wasn’t too serious. Later in the school year when my son broke his arm at recess, she had the secretary call to inform me.