The boys got off to school without any major catastrophes.
I was trying to fold a laundry pile equivalent to the size of Mt. Everest.
My phone rang. I was expecting the tree guy at 8AM to take a look at something for me, maybe he was delayed.
I ran to my phone. It was Little E's teacher. My heart did a flip flop.
PLEASE TELL ME HE DIDN'T FALL OFF THE PLAYGROUND EQUIPMENT AND BREAK HIS FACE.
PLEASE TELL ME HE DIDN'T HAVE RAGING DIARRHEA ALL OVER THE CAFETERIA.
PLEASE JUST BE CALLING TO TELL ME WHAT A SWEET BOY I WAS RAISING AND HOW HAPPY SHE WAS TO SEE HIS SMILING FACE EACH MORNING.
It was none of the above.
Somehow, a wasp had found his way into Little E's classroom. I am not talking about Buckhead Betty with her pearls and Mercedes, I'm talking about a bug with a stinger.
And that wasp took aim right at Little E's neck.
My poor, sweet boy was stung. And he was hysterical. They had tried to calm him down, but he was inconsolable. I told them I'd be right over to retrieve him.
As I navigated the Atlanta morning traffic, I made a mental list of places Little E would never go again:
By the time I arrived at school, Big E had calmed down enough to map out a wasp eradication plan.
His teacher relayed Little E's plan. All wasps, their families, and friends must be relocated to the other continents. Ms. H was in charge of getting them to South America. Little E would be in charge of Israel, Egypt, and Florida. My guess would be he watched way too much of the Ten Commandments while visiting my parents last week. Ms. L graciously took the oceans even though she is admittedly not a big swimmer.
Little E was in a sorry state. His cries ramped up and he clung to me as we walked out of school.
I've calmed him down now and his neck looks much better, thank goodness.
I guess we can cross wasps off the list of things he may be allergic to.