>They’re Coming to Take Me Away. I Think.

>As many of you know, my in-laws dropped in for a quick visit a couple of weeks ago. They’re getting older now and their cross-country visits from California are becoming more infrequent, so when they arrived at our house on Thursday night, I didn’t think twice about letting Punky stay home from school on Friday to spend time with them.

I didn’t think twice, at least, until it came time to write an excuse for her absence from school on Sunday night.

Dear Mrs. Williams, I wrote, and then paused. How could I put this?

Please excuse Punky’s absence on Friday. I realize that this would ordinarily count as an unexcused absence, but her grandparents were in town from California and Punky hasn’t seen them in forever and barely remembers their last visit and there’s no way we can afford six plane fares to California this summer to see them, and it’s far more important for Punky to spend time with these grandparents that she hardly ever gets to see than to log in five more hours of coloring educational pictures, don’t you agree?

Um. No. That was so not going to work.

Please excuse Punky’s absence on Friday, I wrote instead.

She was feeling ill.

Sincerely,

Lindsay Ferrier.

As I wrote the words, I felt guilt wash over me. Not only was I telling a lie, but I was going to have to tell Punky to do the same if it came up in school, and wasn’t that going against everything I had taught her about the importance of honesty?

Still, the consequences of an unexcused absence could be dire. Dire! I wasn’t sure what they were, but I imagined they’d have something to do with a truant officer- one who bore more than a passing resemblance to Mr. Clean. Instead of a white t-shirt and gold earring, though, he’d wear an old-fashioned gray serge uniform with shiny buttons and a British bobby hat on his head. His brass nameplate would read, simply, Truant, and he’d knock on my front door with a stern expression on his face and a pad of tickets in his hand.

“Mrs. Ferrier?” he’d say gravely as I opened the door.

“Yes?” I’d ask nervously, wiping my hands on my apron.

“It is believed that your daughter…” he’d pause and look down at his pad, “…Punky… is a truant. I’m sorry, ma’am, but you’ll have to come with me.”

“Come with you…where?” I’d croak.

“Why downtown, of course. To the clink. The slammer. Truancy is illegal, you know. And your precious punkin, Punky,” he’d spit with cruel alliteration, “is headed for Juvy.”

What would follow would be a scene reminiscent of The Color Purple. The truant officer would carry me out my front door and down the steps while I clutched desperately at a wailing Punky and screamed, “Nothing but death will keep me from her!”

I’m sobbing now just thinking about it.

So you can see why I had to write a lie. I had no choice! And I think it is unbelievable that our school district’s inflexibility virtually requires otherwise model parents to commit acts of moral turpitude in the name of a visit from the grandparents. Or a really good sale on girls’ clothes at Macy’s. Or a slightly extended vacation.

“I’m a little miffed at Clara’s teacher,” a neighbor friend told me the other day. “She’s new this year, and I guess she doesn’t know that you’re supposed to just let it slide if the kids have to miss a day of school when they’re coming back from the beach!”

“What did Clara’s teacher do?” I asked.

“She told me it was unexcused!” my friend snorted. “Like it even matters if Clara misses a day of school here and there. It’s second grade, for heaven’s sake!”

“Did the truant officer come to your door?” I breathed in horror.

“The truant officer?” She laughed bitterly. “Do they even exist anymore?”

“Of course they do!” I said indignantly.

“Have you ever seen one?”

“No,” I said. “But it’s not like I hang out in arcades or movie theaters during school hours. That’s where they patrol.”

“Um, no,” my friend said, giving me a strange look. “No truant officers were involved, Lindsay. Supposedly, Clara just can’t make up her work from that day. Which, as far as I’m concerned, is absolutely fine. It’s mostly all busy work anyway.”

*Let’s pause now while every teacher who reads this blog gasps in horror and indignation*

*My friend said it. I didn’t.*

Seriously. I know that nearly all of you have let your kids stay home from school when they weren’t sick, and I’m sure you had a very good reason for it. But do you then lie to the teacher in your written excuse? Or tell the truth and make your child’s grades suffer?

What’s the solution? Because frankly, I can’t think of a good one.