| brucekluger.com |
NickJr.com, June 2000 In the Trenches With Bruce Kluger Sick Day By Bruce Kluger I had a wonderful experience this afternoon. Too bad my kid had to be sick for me to enjoy it. I was tapping away at the computer when my phone rang. On the other end of the line was Lewis, Bridgette’s nursery school teacher. His voice was level, calm, matter-of-fact. “Bridgette doesn’t feel too well,” he began. “She was complaining that her head and throat hurt, so we took her temperature. She’s got about 100, or 101.” “Well, wait till it reaches 105 or 6,” I dead-panned, “and don’t bother me again until that happens.” I like Lewis, probably because he’s so completely unflappable. “I’ll be right down,” I said after a pause, then hung up and kicked into action—shoes on and out the door within two minutes, into a taxi within another two. On the way to Bridgette’s school (12 blocks away), I felt a strange energy propelling me forward, a peculiar kind of self-importance. I wanted to tell the cabbie, for instance, that I was on my way to pick my daughter up at school—that she was suddenly taken ill and I’d been pulled away from my very important, very sensitive writing assignment here at home, and was now swooping out of the sky like Captain Daddio to rescue my fevered little miss. Indeed, I genuinely had to restrain myself from saying to the hack, “Hey, you got kids?--just so I could not-so-gracefully segue into my Superdad spiel. When I reached the brownstone where Bridgette cuts and pastes and learns five days a week, I bounded up the steps two at a time. Once inside her classroom, I drew my daughter into my arms and asked her with hushed urgency how she was feeling. Her little brow furrowed as she managed to muster up a soft, husky “I’m sick.” Lips to forehead (indeed, she was pretty darn hot), then hand in hand, we left school for home. Once again, as I carried her lunchbox for her, and opened doors, and buckled her into the back seat of a taxi, I couldn’t help but wonder to myself why I felt so energized by this simple exercise of fatherhood. Surely this was no different from the countless other ways in which I regularly look after Bridgette, be it dropping her off at dance class or picking her up from a play date or reading her a story at bedtime. Or was it? The first thing I did when we got home was to plop Bridgey onto the kitchen counter and get a few teaspoons of Motrin into her. Then I got to work changing her into her p.j.'s (her current favorite: an oversized, hot pink Powerpuff Girls t-shirt) and whipping together a sickbed tray for her, complete with hot tea and a Peppermint Patty. These were the touchstones of my childhood sick days (okay, so maybe not the Powerpuff Girls shirt), and I felt a need to pass the ritual along to the next generation. As the tea boiled, and Bridgette and I discussed which video she wanted to watch (from Mommy’s and Daddy’s bed, of course), I could see that she really was sick. Her energy was low, yet her manner was almost giddy-- both telltale signs of that strange quasi-delirium that often precedes a full-blown fever. I can’t tell you how many times I kissed her forehead to reconfirm her sickness, then told her I love her. If she hadn’t been somewhat out of it, she probably would have found my over-the- top concern, well, over the top. Before long, Bridgette was tucked into bed, her teacup-and-tray arrangement on the nightstand, and a Pokemon tape booting up from across the room. “Call me if you need me,” I said, gently closing the door and returning to the living room. Once back in front of my word processor, I tried to understand the impact this mid- day diversion had on me, and yet again, why it had felt so important to me to feel so needed. And the closest I could come was this: Ninety percent of the time, our children express needs that, in the end, can be satisfied by just about anyone. If the food is warm and the volume is up and the color matches their favorite sneakers, they’re usually pretty happy campers. After all, it is not the job of youngsters to burden themselves with understanding the arcana of the delivery system—their work is basically to command and consume and, on better days, manage a please and thank you in the process. But every now and then, the mom-and-dad hotline rings with an order that no one else but the real McCoy can fill. And, as parents, we need to be prepared for these moments around the clock. When I got that call from Bridgette’s teacher, I felt like a relief pitcher who, after patiently waiting it out in the bullpen, was now being called upon to do precisely what it is he’s hired to do, namely, jumping into the game and delivering the goods—dependably, enthusiastically and expeditiously. It never crossed my mind to finish whatever it was I was engaged in when my orders came down from the top. This is not selfless martyrdom I’m describing here, it’s simply the nuts and bolts of the job description. Yet the beat goes on, and unlike her little sister Audrey (who at 15 months is neediness personified—toddling and babbling, with wailing demands and a hair- trigger temper that could scare the diaper off your average two-year-old), Bridgette is beginning to learn to answer to her own inner needs of late. Even though she is only five, each day I watch her develop a greater sense of self—fighting her own battles in school, successfully keeping secrets with her girlfriends (and Mommy), absorbing the sounds and colors of her portable little universe without depending on running narration from me. Consequently, when Lewis told me that a nasty little platoon of microbes had momentarily brought a halt to Bridgette’s march toward independence, I was more than eager to fly into action. Indeed, I was even grateful for it. Hence, my unrestrained white knight routine. As I write this, Bridgette lies asleep in my bedroom, the fever having finally gotten the best of her, despite attempts by Pikachu and company to keep her eyes open. Pretty soon she’ll be up, though, and needing me again. My guess is that another video will be in order (The Music Man, I bet you) and possibly a box of Chiclets. The request for gum, should it come, will be a sure indication that she is feeling better. In which case, it will be back to the bullpen for me, where I’ll eagerly await the next call. |
Daddy’s little patient: Bridgette with ice pack and Betty Boop.
