"Alert! Alert! Your husband is calling!"
Puts a smile on my face every time I hear it.
Since I was at work, I didn't answer it -- then I started wondering if something was wrong. So I apologized and said, "He usually only calls if there's an emergency so let me just check in with him."
He wanted to know if he could have my restaurant leftovers so he wouldn't piss me off if I was planning to eat them myself later. He has a long history of outraging everyone who has special leftovers in the refrigerator. The kids used to write all over their take out containers -- "Do Not Eat! This Means You, Dad!"
In 1995, I was at a special event for the grand opening of the fabulous Phoenix Central library (this was long before everyone had cell phones), a woman rushed up to me and said, "You need to call home. There's an emergency!" I about fell off my high heels racing to the nearest phone only to reach our teenage Youngest Daughter who needed to know ...
"Where's the tuna fish?"
Seriously. That was the emergency. *sigh* And don't you suppose it's in the pantry where IT ALWAYS IS?!?!
We have, though, had a true emergency call. A few years ago, same Youngest Daughter, now about 15 years older, was involved in a pretty serious car accident. I was working in our retail store and the accident actually happened nearby. Hubby knew I had a haircut scheduled and he also knew that me racing to the scene of the accident where, by the way, YD was sitting on the curb holding her arm with her snapped-in-half wrist dangling, would not benefit anyone. I'm good in emergencies -- unless they involve my own children. Then I lose my mind.
Hubby assured me he would go straight to the scene, make sure she was taken care of, talk to the police, deal with her car being towed, keep me advised and meet me at the hospital later. He begged me to keep my haircut appointment, which was in just a few minutes.
I remember walking around in a fog, driving to the salon, telling my hair dresser that I had no idea what I was doing there. She cut and styled my hair while I sat with a knot of dread in my stomach. Then I drove myself to the emergency room.
As it turns out, getting to the hospital had taken a while, so they hadn't arrived there much sooner than I did. YD had been transported by ambulance and Hubby had driven there after he had everyone's names and numbers and found out where her car was being taken. She had, thankfully, been given some pain relief so she was groggy. I leaned over her tear-stained face, she opened her eyes, focused on me and said, "Wow, your hair really looks great!"
Oh yeah, that's my kid! She was also truly upset that she was wearing a brand new shirt for the first time that was ruined. They wouldn't let us watch a lot of what went on in the emergency room so we stood outside the curtain and listened and talked to her and encouraged her.
"Mom, *sob* my new shirt got ruined."
"I know, sweetie, we'll get you a new shirt."
"But I loved that shirt and it's the first time I wore it."
"It's okay, we'll just go get another one."
"No, we won't, *sob* because I got it on a clearance rack at Target for $6.00 and it was the last one."
Even the doctors and paramedics were laughing at this.
Of course, there's a lot more to this story including setting her arm in the emergency room (listening to this about brought me to my knees), consultations with an orthopedic surgeon, surgery and months of recovery, helping her shower and use the bathroom, and crying with her during physical therapy. But all the gory details aside, that was the worst emergency call I've ever received about one of my kids. Knocking on wood here!!!