Wednesday

The day began with a call to Poison Control, and that wasn’t the most noteworthy event of Wednesday.

Hearken back to 8^th grade … ostensibly, one had a choice whether to take Wood Shop or Home Economics. Until that moment in the history of the civilized world, at least at my junior high, boys had always taken shop, though girls were welcomed in either class. It wasn’t until compelled by threat of school board action that the bitty who taught Home Ec welcomed males to her classroom. I was one of seven boys who signed up for her class, the first ever to be admitted. We weren’t quite like the seven brave souls who defied their governor by walking into their segregated high school in Little Rock that day a generation ago under the protection of the National Guard, but we did get our names in the paper. At least in the Hickory Hills Junior High Beacon, but it was press, nonetheless.

I tell you that story to tell you this one: my Home Ec teacher let us Y-chromosomes into her class, but she didn’t let us do diddly. We were allowed to be the “taste testers” for the girls’ cooking, never the chef. (Ironically, we were allowed to sew. We were given the choice to make placemats or a sundress. My placemats ROCKED, but I wish I had had the nerve to make something strapless…). Never having been allowed to be chef, I never really learned one immutable bit of trivia: just how many teaspoons go into a tablespoon, anyway? No wonder my cookies never turn out right.

That may have been helpful to know, or at least beneficial, to have had a fuller appreciation for the significant difference between the measurements – as in, to give the 5 year old a tablespoon of children’s Mucinex instead of a TEAspoon falls a bit outside the margin for error. Thus, said phone call took place early this morning, and the nice lady on the other end kindly informed Molly (I was too mortified to make the call myself) that this hadn’t risen to the level of toxicity. Always good news to hear. And the nice lady even said the 5 year old could head to school.

Who knew too much Mucinex in a child is has the impact as, say, hallucinogenic mushrooms in Aaron Sorkin? (I mean, it took something a little stouter than a cup of coffee to write President Bartlet, in The West Wing, calling the Butterball hotline looking for stuffing tips the day before Thanksgiving.) I’m not sure how it happened, but somehow Josie misunderstood a conversation she overheard between her teacher and boy in the class who had been voted Junior Homecoming Prince. In what, in retrospect, must have been delusions of grandeur brought about by OTC sinus meds, Josie thought she was the Homecoming Princess. And would ride alongside Prince Jesse in a tiara and robe and carry flowers and wave to the town’s commoners along the parade route. It wasn’t until after she walked through the house practicing her best parade princess wave that it occurred to me she really thinks she is to be in this parade. She had told her classmates during the day, and then everyone she saw at church tonight. She was ready to call grandparents and local media outlets before I finally traced the origins of the story with her teacher, whom I called at home on a weekday evening.

I must say, Josie took the disappointment well. Molly broke the news to her in the car en route home from church. Josie will get to watch the parade Friday with her classmates and attend the spirit assembly next door at the high school. I figure next week she’ll dream of being a cheerleader….

I still don't have the first damn clue how many teaspoons make a tablespoon.