Instead, The Tween answered.
“What happened? Who’s hurt?” I asked.
“I called because Cory won’t get off of the computer and it’s my turn.”
Reader, I nearly leapt down the phone to throttle her. Then him. I settled for driving home and yelling.
After a long, long review of what constitutes an emergency — is there fire? is there a lot of blood? no, more than a paper cut — we gave it another go. And another. While I still worry (and suspect I always will), I’m relatively confident that they are fine.
My major concern now lies elsewhere in the house.
Last night, while I was finishing up at the Green Toad Bookstore, where I work a couple of hours each week, my husband called. The last two weeks have been full of tag-team parenting because of various work and school commitments. I don’t know if there has been a night when all four human members of the house have been home at the same time.
I should have remembered that the adolescent canine member of the house can also feel neglected.
“Hi,” my husband said, when he called. “Just FYI. Someone peed on our bed.”
“Was it you?” I asked, thinking he must be joking.
“No,” he said. “I didn’t see it in person but I’m pretty sure it was the dog.”
“Great,” I said and made it clear that what I wanted to say was “not great. So not great” but with more vigorous, grown-up words.
We worked out where all of the new laundry was, what had been started, and what needed to be dry before we fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. Then he had to run out the door for a work thing.
The kids and dog were home alone together for maybe 30 minutes.