The Poorly Child Procedure

Last Friday, my daughter woke up complaining of stomach pains.

It's the nightmare scenario - 7:30am on a workday, your child sitting on the edge of their bed, clutching their stomach and looking very forlorn. Time is ticking away. Your kid is not even dressed. You are going to be late for work. And Junior is going to be late for school. Again.

You start to panic. After all, schools get very arsey about lateness these days. You'll probably get one of those letters from the Head of Year insinuating that you're an unfit parent. Next thing you know, Social Services will be knocking on the door and a magistrate will be sending you on a parenting course. You'll have to listen to some well-meaning imbecile in a pink shirt lecturing you about "boundaries" while putting up slides of runaway children on crack cocaine.

Worse still, if the illness is genuine, you may have to phone your boss and tell them you can't come in. They will try to act all understanding in an "I don't want an industrial tribunal on my hands" kind of way. But really they are making a mental note that you are a liability to be disposed of in the next "restructuring".

OK. Don't panic. It's time to implement The 5-stage Poorly Child Procedure.

Stage 1: Denial

Simply ignore the complaint and breezily change the subject.

"Dad, I've got a really bad stomach ache."

"Ooh...is Family Guy on tonight? I think I like that even better than the Simpsons...what shall we have for tea?"

On this particular Friday, though, denial didn't work. The complaints continued and, after several attempts at completely ignoring her, I escalated matters to the next level.

Stage 2: Acknowledgement Without Commitment

Sometimes kids just want a bit of sympathy. They are not looking to completely disrupt your day with a full blown sickie - they just feel a little bit poorly. So try offering a brief acknowledgement before quickly moving on to the day's business.

"No but Dad it's reeeaaaally bad..."

"Oh dear, is it love? That's awful. Here are some clean socks. Your dinner money's on the kitchen table."

Unfortunately, this time, Brady Jr was having none of it.

"Dad! I mean it. It's really bad!"

OK. On to Stage 3.

Stage 3: Gentle Interrogation

You need to find out if your child is telling the truth. And Quick. But you can't sound too accusatory, or the situation could escalate into a screaming match.

The following questions should be asked, with as casual an air as possible:

"So...what subjects have you got today?....How did you get on with that maths homework that was due in this morning?....How are you getting on with your friend, Amy/Ellie/Jo?"

While asking these questions keep a careful watch for any sudden eye movements. If it helps, pretend you're in the CIA.

Sadly, on this occastion, Brady Jr barked back - "Look I'm not trying to get out of school - OK!?"

Then she doubled up in what looked very much like pain. Time for Stage 4.

Stage 4: Accentuate the Negative (with thinly veiled threats)

The situation is now quite serious.

If your child is faking and you fall for it, the consequences could be dire and far-reaching. They may realise just what a gullible idiot you are. This could mean spending the rest of your life being taken for a ride, culminating in them persuading you to sell your house and move into an old folk's home so they can afford a breast enlargement operation.

What's more, schools dislike absence even more than lateness. They've got attendance targets to meet and they don't want your lily-livered lack of interrogative skills to screw things up for them.

The only option now is to raise the stakes.

"Oh dear. I really don't want you to be ill - you'll miss horse-riding/the cinema/your friend's party/etc"

This is quite sneaky really. What you're actually saying is: "Even if you are not genuinely ill I will make sure you have a miserable day."

She knows it. You know it.

On this occasion, Stage 4 brought about the realisation that Brady Jr would be unable to sing at the school concert. She'd been rehearsing for weeks. But now she was too ill to perform. She was totally inconsolable.

It was now time to enter the final phase of the procedure.

Stage 5: Give In and Feel Like a Lousy Parent

"OK. I'll phone the doctors," I said.

Two hours later, we emerge from the doctor's, get in the car and head for the hospital.

She looks at me accusingly from the passenger seat. "Acute appendicitis! That's Acute appendicitis!"

I try a charming smile. "Oh well, better to have a cute appendicitis than an ugly one."

"Very funny," she says, solemnly clutching her abdomen. "You should be a comedian."