MARY ANN FITZMORRIS

Mom’s sick of children’s creative illnesses

New house rule: You will be picked up early from school if a) your fever melts the edges of the school thermometer, as verified by the school nurse, or if you have puked within the last 30 minutes. Such stringent guidelines are now necessary in my house as both kids have become skilled at shortening their school day. Their plans are not nearly as exciting as Ferris Bueller’s, and the schemes not nearly as complicated. But my children’s success rate has been just as good as that fictional paragon of absenteeism. They have always accomplished their single, simple goal…to leave school before anyone else. My daughter has a genuine knack for this, having demonstrated her aptitude as far back as kindergarten. After a few calls with vague ailments, it became clear that she was only allergic to school. Poor thing, she can’t conjure up any real illnesses, since my son brought them all home to her when he entered school. So she was forced to start early with “creative” diseases. For most kids, though, a hankering for hooky seems to kick in around middle school. It is a relatively new and surprising development for my son. Just last year he joked about the kids who were “sick” all the time. Once, just for fun, he checked with pencil in the back of his notebook each time someone groaned up to the teacher’s desk. That day there were 15 checkmarks by 11:30 a.m! He must have started feeling a little dumb about being one of the remaining students because this year he’s afflicted with a chronic illness. It is not uncommon to begin the day with him putting my hand to his forehead, just to check. If I make the mistake of acknowledging a tinge of extra warmth there, I can expect a call around 9:30 a.m. At first I would get him, no questions asked, until I noticed a remarkable turnaround in his condition on the way home. A miraculous healing before my very eyes. As soon as we arrived at the house he would bound out of the car and resume playing. But the real fun started when we arrived back at school at regular dismissal time to get my daughter. She would sneer, “Well, I see you picked HIM up from school early. What’s the matter with him?” she’d ask suspiciously, turning infrared eyes on him to detect any contagion in his aura. I knew to expect a call from her the following morning at 9:30 a.m. The last time I picked up the phone and heard, “Mom, I don’t feel well,” my son was genuinely sick, his teacher said. I felt a little guilty doubting him. But on the way home he confided, “I’m surprised the office ladies called you. They usually just bounce the regulars’ back to class. But one other guy made it out today.” I did not share my son’s pride at his being one of the regulars.’ And after he named the other guy I was surprised that kid was not considered terminal. I thought he was a fixture on the paramedics list as well. That young man’s mother was furious when she found out that she had been summoned to rescue the boy because the classroom lights were too bright. They were hurting his eyes. Really. The office ladies must enjoy his originality. But I’m sure the creativity of any of the guys pales in comparison to the Ten Little Indians. Middle school girls tend to hang in packs, and evidently abandon school one by one throughout the day. As soon as the first one is stricken, they glance at each other in sort of a secret code, until the mysterious illness has become an epidemic. Soon everyone in the group is gone. On the few trips I’ve made lately to school it seems that there is an awful lot of coughing and sneezing, and more than a few kids who look under the weather. Ironically, it seems that the only kids who are in school are the ones who are actually sick. After all, a teacher needs someone to keep her company. MARY ANN FITZMORRIS writes this column every Saturday for L’Observateur.