I got another call from the principal. I think she has me on speed dial.

Yesterday was all-school Reconciliation day at my kids’ Catholic school. That means every Catholic student goes to confession. It also means that my son had the opportunity to repent. My son. The child who once thought the Pope was really tall because I called him our highest priest.

If you don’t know about the sacrament of Penance and Reconciliation, the Catechism of the Catholic Church states, “Sin is before all else an offense against God, a rupture of communion with him. At the same time it damages communion with the Church. For this reason conversion entails both God’s forgiveness and reconciliation with the Church…”

That means you have to get your mind right with both entities. Though some will argue that God and the Church are one entity, that is a discussion for another blog post on someone else’s site where people like to argue.

A lot of people think confession is an archaic tradition, but I find it really therapeutic. It’s a time for a lot of self-reflection and re-centering, though I can’t say that my 10 year old son sees it through my, more mature, eyes.

Most kids (and some adults) hate going to Reconciliation. It’s embarrassing and humbling, and a lot of children don’t know how to handle those feelings. Apparently, though, not my kid. According to the principal, he went to two confessions, with two different priests, and was on his way into see a third one when he was “caught.”

He says it was because he couldn’t decide who to talk to, but I think he was either trying to get extra forgiveness or split up his sins so he didn’t look as bad.

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Me, lying in bed after looking at the clock: Ahhh, I have one more hour of glorious sleep. Thank goodness!

Dog: Vomits.

**

Daughter: “Mom, they only give scholarship recommendations to four students.”

Me: “So, did you ask for one?”

Daughter: “Yeah, I was the fifth.”

**

Me to daughter: “You really should continue with drama in high school. It’s a good extra-cirricular activity. Sit down with me and watch the Oscars.”

Seth MacFarlane: “We saw your boobs!”

**

Principal, while lecturing my son on his behavior as she taps her skull with her index finger: “This is what you need to do before you act out. What am I doing right now?”

Son: “Poking yourself in the head.”

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Yesterday afternoon, my 10 year old son had six teeth pulled. Because my kid is special, this had to be done by the Chief of Dentistry at our local pediatric hospital. When I say, “special” I mean that my son has bigger medical bills than your son.

Thanks to anxiety, gagging, reflux and a heart condition, this meant general anesthesia for the eighth time. I have always said that watching him get wheeled away to surgery is the hardest part. I was wrong.

Yesterday, the hospital staff gave me the option of joining my son in the operating room until he was asleep. I had never done it before and I was one part happy to be there to comfort him and one part curious about what he has experienced many times while his dad and I have been down the hall drinking waiting room coffee.

I donned something akin to the bunny suit from A Christmas Story, only it was blue and didn’t have ears, and followed the gurney through the heavy OR doors. What happened next is something I will never forget. Hint: It wasn’t a Red Ryder BB Gun.

Once transferred to the operating table, my son began to shake and cry and FLAT OUT refused to breathe the laughing gas coming through his strawberry scented mask. I knew this wasn’t going to go down as planned and when the nurse told me to show him how easy it was, and whispered for me to pretend to breathe into the tube, I would be lying if I didn’t think about taking a gigantic whiff.

Instead I tried to calm my son as four people held him to the table and forced the mask to his face. I placed my head directly in front of his and held his hands tight as I kept repeating, “You’re okay. You’re doing a great job. Good boy.” Over and over and over, for the eternity it took to get him to sleep.

His eyes had fear in them that I hope no parent ever has to see in the eyes of their child and as he tried to yell, “Mommy!” from under the mask, my heart broke into a million pieces. I calmly continued, “It’s okay. I’m right here. You’re doing a great job.” It was like watching a death scene in a movie, only it was real life and I was letting these people suffocate my son.

In less than 30 seconds, his grip on my fingers loosened and they laid him back gently. I picked up the Matchbox car he had thrown across the room and found his glasses that I was sure would be crumpled and smashed, but were actually intact. Then I went to the other side of the OR doors and took off my bunny suit and promptly began crying. I didn’t stop until the doctor came to talk to us.

Today my boy is playing, eating Jell-o like it’s his business, and marveling that the Tooth Fairy left him $20 and let him keep his bag o’ teeth.

But mostly, he’s just getting annoyed at how often I keep grabbing him for extra tight hugs.

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So, you know how you go downstairs to do laundry because you’re out of underwear, and realize that the trash can full of dryer lint has been knocked down every time you’ve gone to the basement for the last two weeks, and you know the only logical explanation is that there is a critter causing the trouble, or a ghost, and you’re hoping it’s a ghost, and then your husband goes outside and finds a flat tire, and while he’s changing the spare tire, he spills all of his coffee, so he makes more coffee, then he spills that too, so you don’t get any coffee and neither does he, and then you look in the mirror to see the painful spot on your ear where you thought your glasses were rubbing you is actually a big zit, then you get a phone call from your son’s school telling you that he can’t participate in any of the Mardi Gras celebrations because he’s not being responsible, and you’re all, “I KNOW! I don’t know what to do with him! I even write ‘BE RESPONSIBLE’ on his napkin every day!” and you want to cry because you really don’t know what to do with him, and you secretly wish it was wine o’clock, and then your daughter comes home from school with a migraine?

Yeah, me too.

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