My grandson fractured his wrist during football practice two weeks ago. The ER doctor doled out pills and dire predictions that Jamie would be out of sports six months, wiping out the entire seasons for both football and wrestling. The next day I checked him into school and went by the clinic to leave his medicine. The clinic clerk said that such a controlled narcotic (wow!) could not be left at the school—even locked up in the clinic. Basically, that policy meant that Jamie should be at home rather than at school, where he could possibly stay awake enough to learn a little something. After a few minutes of processing this inanity, considering the option of taking Jamie out of class and driving him all the way home and thus missing an important meeting at work, I flopped myself down in the office and vented to the secretary, a long-time friend. Finally, the secretary, the office clerk, two assistant principals, and the principal spent quite a bit of time trying to figure out what to do. I kept looking at my watch and stressing out. It was not a good way to start the morning.
That afternoon on the way home, I was still venting (just a little . . .) about the wasted time for so many people. Jamie, with a twinkle in his eye, said, “But Grandmama--I felt so LOVED!”
Such a great attitude. I think I need to go to Jamie for some life lessons.
