guilt

After about two weeks of school, I finally realized that I could venture out of Brooklyn while the wee ones get their learn on.
Having read Schjeldahl's effusive piece on the Morandi exhibit at the Met, I decided to see for myself. So I did some shopping, packed myself a nice little lunch (smoked salmon with butter and lettuce on an Italian baguette and an apple, if you must know), and headed off to Manhattan.
I didn't pick up a map to the museum right away, so I wandered around for a while and smacked into the Turner exhibit. A nice surprise, though a bit of overkill since a little Turner goes a long way for me. (And there were so many early versions of the Houses of Parliament fire, I was starting to think he had burned the place down himself.) Also, I had loaded my iPod with 50s an 60s Miles Davis to get in the Morandi mood and it didn't fit with giant painted renditions of someone staring into a light source.
But I did pick up a map and wend my way to Morandi. I think I wasn't quite in the mood since I was more entertained by the people than by the paintings. I generally have a blast when the people take themselves more seriously than the paintings do. But in this case I wasn't so sure; something about the Morandi pieces seemed too precious.
But you're not here to read an art review (too much like a cross between di Chirico and Guston, both of whom I like better - in case you do want one):
When I picked up the kids from school, Coco's teacher told me about a little accident. Something about a finger getting pinched in a door.
And here's my problem with Coco accidents: I'm so freaked out about seizures that when it's not one - as today - I just say, "Oh, phew." But apparently it was bad enough for him to have to go to the nurse and succumb to the indignity of an icepack. (Only people who really know Coco know what trauma this must have been.) And he's been saying that he's not going back to school anymore because he'll just get his fingers slammed again.
Meanwhile, I'm just thinking, "Oh, phew. No seizure."
And at bedtime I realized we had a message on the answering machine: the school's nurse calling about an emergency.
The guilt.