The movie, “Freaky Friday,” told the story of a mother/daughter combo who inadvertently (magically) exchanged bodies and got to know one another by literally walking in the other’s shoes for a long day, thereby learning to love in spite of their differences.
My life’s Freaky Friday involves a series of (unfortunate) events surrounding a baseball game in which two varsity teams inadvertently exchanged playing skills and got to experience each other’s status (winner/loser) for a long game, thereby learning to… Truly, I have no idea.
(If you dislike baseball, read on. My emphasis is on the series of unfortunate events surrounding the unfortunate game, in which our winning team exchanged places with their losing team.)
Our 7 p.m. game yesterday was a two-hour drive away, and since I get up at 4:45 a.m. each weekday, I was tired before we began. My husband opted out because he had to get up early this morning to go to work (not that he gets up alone, mind you!).
Shortly after we left at 4 p.m., my daughter, who had already been on two antibiotics for a sore throat, sent me a text: “I went back to the Dr today because my tonsils are still really bad. They are sending me to the er.” My son Adam, who acts as my secretary when I am driving, retrieved the text and read it aloud, without emotion. I responded with enough emotion for both of us.
“What? Stop fooling around! What did she really say?”
He was distracted by the boys in the back seat, so I grabbed the phone (as soon as I reached a traffic light) and read it for myself. Oh, my! It was time for the big guns; forget texting, I made a call. When I dialed, she was still in the doctor’s office (where she stood on display, she told me later, as various doctors and nurses audibly gasped as they saw for themselves the large, puss-covered tonsils).
She called me back as she was driving herself to the emergency room. Her husband would meet her there, and I would call my home-bound husband to alert him (which I did while crying. Not appreciated.) They predicted the ER would drain her tonsils. I, of course, imagined the worst.
Meanwhile, I drove on to the ball game. We arrived without incident; I shared Laura’s plight with the other parents (who overlooked my mom tears), and they not only gathered around me to pray, but they moved their chairs to be near me to help me as I scored the game, figuring (correctly) that I would be distracted at times by updates via text messaging.
The game was not what we expected. Our team had won easily by the mercy rule on our home field, and we expected a quick victory before our two-hour ride home. It turns out my daughter’s ER visit was shorter than our game. Her tonsils were prettier than our play, too, I gather.
(She did send a photo to my phone, which I would love to share with you, just so you have a picture of our Freaky Friday’s complete exchange of talents with the opposing team. But I won’t. The doctors gave Laura IVs of steroids and pain killers and yet another prescription for an antibiotic, and then they sent her home. My worry was unfounded.)
After we packed up to leave, I set off in the lead, with one vehicle following, intending to stop for a quick meal en route. We ended up too late for eating inside and so drove through the Wendy’s to get food. I chose not to eat, preferring to get the drive over; the driver following me stayed to eat in the parking lot.
Shortly after we set off alone on the long, deserted road through the forest, we experienced yet another unfortunate event. A suicidal rabbit leaped into my path, and I yelled, “Oh, rabbit!” (my new cuss word, I think), as we heard it tumbling against the underside of my van. (I tried to make light of it with such comments as, “Brace yourself if I yell, ‘Oh, deer!’ “) Clearly a bit rattled, I drove on without apparent incident, but about 20 minutes later, slowing down for a small town, I noticed that despite my reduced pace, my speedometer was climbing.
In the middle of nowhere, I had no choice but to keep driving the dark, two-lane highway–but I had no idea what speed I was going as my speedometer climbed above 85, 95, 110 mph, then off the scale. It was absolutely freaky. I finally was able to contact the driver who I knew was somewhere behind me, and he caught up, then passed me so that I could follow him home–at more than 140 mph, apparently (and if you see a picture my son shot of my speedometer, well, now you know the real story).
The midnight ride of my series of unfortunate events drove home the feeling that I had just lived through a very freaky Friday. I am thankful, truly, that I have such faithful friends, that the ride wasn’t more eventful, that my daughter is on the road to recovery, and that I am not on the road today!
Freaky Friday behind me, I am now living Scary Saturday, as I wait for my husband’s verdict on the car repair…