(Updated at the bottom of this post, with my eternal gratitude going out to my cousin Kathy.)

I would like, if I may, to take you on a strange journey…

Once upon a time, their was a little boy, and we shall call him…oh, BofC. He was 7, almost 8, and a bit short for his age. He was cute with big doey blue eyes and the littlest hands you’ve ever seen.

BofC and his big brother liked to take the city bus to and from school. The walk is maybe 15 minutes in kid time, but their mother thought it wouldn’t be a terrible idea to have them learn the public transit system, so she indulged them and bought them bus passes. This made them feel very grown up, indeed.

One Thursday, the boys were waiting at the bus stop to get home and a group of really really older kids (6th grade) walked past. One of the older boys decided that it would be the funnest fun ever to totally assault BofC at the bus stop. This boy grabbed at BofC’s back pack, snatched his coat from his hands, tried to rip his lunch sack from around his neck, all the while shouting “Give me all your money, kid!”

BofC froze. He clutched his things and tried not to cry. His older brother started tugging back on his brother’s things, but also was left speechless. The devil-child continued his little reign of terror until one of his little groupies came to the aid of the small children. This child grabbed back the coat, handed it to BofC, and drug Beelzebub across the street, away from the kids.

When BofC arrived home, and sharing the story with his mother, something odd happened. His mother was suddenly 7 years old herself, getting her ass kicked on a playground some 5,000 miles away from there.

His mother lost her shit. Fire shot from her eyes. All the hair on her body stood on end. She set a plan of action.

She called the principal of the school, and the principal asked her to attempt to find out who this child was so the school could take the appropriate action. That was all the mother needed to hear.

The next day, the mother picked her boys up from school in the car. She waited in the car at the corner where the attack occurred, since her boys had told her this child passed that way every day to go home. After 20 minutes of waiting, they spotted the heathen.

They waited. They waited while he played football with his friends. They waited while they played “Shove each other into on-coming traffic.” They waited through a string of swear words, and eventually the boys came walking past the car.

The mother jumped out of her car.

She called to the boy in the blue hoodie. He turned. She asked his name. He replied, “George.” George what? “George Melloncamp *snicker snicker*”

The mother remained cool, though she is sure her face was 17 shades of red.

“Boy,” she said, “I know who you are. Your name is irrelevant. And I am sure you know who this boy is.” (points to BofC) After a whole group of kid said their oh no’s and their we’ve never seen him befores, the mother started again.

“I assure you, you will all remember come Monday morning. Look, George, (looks at his friends) here’s the deal. I know what you look like, and I know what your friends look like, so one way or the other, I WILL be in your classroom first thing Monday morning to point you out to the principal. You can make this easy on me, or you can make this hard on me. I really don’t care. But come Monday morning, I WILL know your name, and your parents names, and your phone number, and you will be having a lovely little chat with your principal. See, kid, this boy here is my son and no one touches my son. No one steals from my son. No one frightens or hurts my son. So, the principal will be dealing with you, and if that doesn’t work, I promise oh I promise you the police will be dealing with you. So, do you want to tell me your name, (looks at his friends) or do you want to do this the hard way?”

“His name is Asshat (not really) and he lives right over there in that house on the corner and I don’t know his last name but I will tell you if I find out,” the weakest link chimed in. Never underestimate the power of using their friends against them.

“Good, Asshat, I will see you on Monday morning.”

And the mother turned, got in her son in her car, got herself in her car, and drove away.

How much do you want to bet that Asshat calls out sick on Monday morning? I wish you could have seen his face. He was so very busted. It turns out, the school administrators know Asshat on a first name basis. They didn’t need a grade or a last name. They said, “OH, yes, AAAAASSHAT.”

The story will continue next week, but the moral of it is this: Don’t fuck with my kids. Just don’t. Because me? Kind of a bitch.

Updated: Thank you, Kathy. This information will certainly come in handy on Monday.
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