The Principal Has Me on Speed-dial

Nothing heralds impending doom for me quite like hearing the voice on the other end of the line tentatively say “Mrs. Bowen?”  No one, not even the ever-pesky telemarketer, addresses me as Mrs. Bowen..except the school principal.  Mrs. Bowen is never followed by news of projectile vomiting or fever high enough to fry an egg on the forehead.  No, no.  It’s code for “your kid’s in deep poopy-doo Sister and you better get down here pronto”.

I ask you this:  Am I a bad mother if my first response to the principal’s question “How are you today” is either “That depends.  How AM I today?” or “What did (he, she, they) do now?” and that I’m always dismayed when they follow up that little exchange with a chuckle and assurances that the little darlings aren’t ill?  What, it’s not Ebola?  Damn the luck!!

And where is it written that academic atomic blowups mean you call the mother first?  Pardon me, but if my being born female automatically endows me with the title of CCUO (Chief Clean Up Officer) of inadvertant personal protein spills, why can’t Daddy-o handle school shenanigans?  The last I heard, it took an egg AND a sperm.  I am not in this alone, folks!  I’m one of two parents in a two-parent household.  Ask my husband about this; he’ll tell you it’s ALL HIS FAULT!  Then ask my mother…she’ll tell I was the good child!! 

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