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Alternatively titled, ‘Don’t Tell The Teacher.’
So most of you know that I have four kids, though you could be forgiven for not knowing that, if you follow my instagram feed.
Well all for of my children, for some strange reason completely unbeknownst to myself, have a flair for the dramatic.
I’m fairly certain that I should be able to make money off of more than one of them in the future.
This desire for fun and dramatism, often expresses itself in various ways, not least of which is the complete over reaction to any kind of pain, by my eldest daughter.
In fact, it’s quite possible some of you nearer to Darwin in location (like Hobart), heard the screams from my house yesterday morning.
No, I was not attacking her with a blunt instrument.
I was removing a splinter.
It would be easy to get them mixed up.
This display that borders on the verge of hypochondria, has led to some fairly stern talkings to, that she does not need to go to the School’s Office, every time she has something mildly wrong with her. A habit which, for a while a few years ago, she was happily immersing herself in.
Thankfully, I have not had to have this conversation with her younger sister.
In fact, with both Bridie and Bailey, we have had the opposite.
I have had to instruct both of them that if you hurt yourself, or you’re not feeling well, it’s actually ok to tell the teacher. Blood pouring out of your knee, is a legitimate excuse for a bandaid.
A paper cut is not.
It’s one extreme to the other.
Man flu to the opposite of man-flu
So I shouldn’t have been surprised when last Tuesday’s events unfolded.
All the kids had been sick. Ava had had a ridiculous fever over the weekend that had had me concerned about febrile convulsions, and both Bailey and Taylah had had a day ofd school.
Bridie, amazingly, was the only healthy one.
Or so it seemed.
Tuesday morning, her class goes out to fitness, and she starts to develop a headache. Fair enough. It was really hot last week.
Of course, she doesn’t tell the teacher.
The headache contiues and gets slightly worse, so that at recess time, after eating her lunch (of course), she didn’t even go and play.
That’s how unwell she felt.
And yet she didn’t tell the teacher.
Science, with her favourite teacher rolls around, and she can’t do the work, cause of the pain in her head. She gets her name on the board for not cleaning her desk like she is asked.
And still, you guessed it, she does not tell the teacher.
The bell for lunch goes.
By this time the poor kid is feeling so bad, she can’t eat any of her recess, and she has no desire to play at all, so sits by herself outside her classroom. A passing teacher asks if she is ok, and she says she has a headache, so the teacher sends her to the office, where they make her lie down.
When lunch is finished, they send her back to class.
Silent reading doesn’t happen for her; she puts her head down on the desk and does nothing.
The teacher has stern words with the class over their lack of tidiness, and notices Bridie whimpering, but thinks nothing of it. She is sure she is upset over the dressing down.
10 minutes before school finishes, someone tells the teacher Bridie has thrown up. The poor woman is completely confused, as in her mind, Bridie is fine, and looks around to find her. She sees a small patch of vomit on the floor, and looks for my girl.
Good old stoic, feel-no-pain Bridie, is in the corner, on her hands and knees with a pile of tissues, desperately trying to clean up her pool of vomit.
So she wouldn’t have to tell the teacher.
That there, is the extreme opposite of man flu.
Poor kid was in no so much pain when she got home, panadol didn’t cut it. I had to give her pain stop to sleep.
Someone else who has been bravely soldiering through extreme pain is the latest Blogger of the Mo’. (In an attempt to be more like me, she too had her wisdom removed. It’s what all the cool bloggers are doing these days.)
I love this chick’s blog for all the randomness and giggles, but it was this picture on Instagram that sealed the deal for me.
Swollen cheeks, and the saddest face in the world, and still read to partay.
That is commitment.
So make sure you say Hi, and have a cuppa with Crodie (she totes said we could call her that) at Cup of Tea and a Blog. Or CoTaab on twitter, which is an anagram that always makes me giggle.
Do you or your his suffer from Man-Flu, or are you the suffer in silence type?
Have you had a cuppa with Crodie yet?
Do you kinda wanna get your wisdom teeth out just to be like us?