It’s not often that I find my spam mail to be prophetic, but hey—stranger things have certainly happened.
This morning amidst the advertisements for mortgages, diet pills, bodily enhancements, and RILLY RILLY REAL ROLEXES, GINA!, I received this gem of a subject line:
Oh, you are not able to control your feelings!
I think we all know what the email was really about (ummm… donuts?), but after today it made me laugh.
You know how people sometimes seem one way on their blogs, and then it turns out that it was all a lie and they’re actually really different? I never want to be the sort of person who spins out a persona apart from the reality. I want to be straight with you.
So I have to tell you something.
Anyone who’s been reading me for a while knows that I don’t so much wear my feelings on my sleeve as much as they sort of seep and ooze from my pores and puddle around my shoes, causing my socks to go *squish, squish* at inopportune times. It’s not a surprise to hear that I’m emotional.
What you may not have realized—what, indeed, you may not want to know at all—is that I’m not all talk. Cross me, or my kids, and face my wrath. My deadly wrath.
So you can perhaps imagine my pride to hear that yesterday, my son announced to his class that the boy who was bothering him was living on borrowed time. Why? “My mom is going to come to school and kill him and then he’ll be dead.”
That’s right. I kill 6-year-olds. And then they’re dead. (Clarifying that last part is important, because, well, they’re only 6.) (When Monkey was in preschool I would kill children and then they’d only be mostly dead, but I’ve toughened up since then.)
The comfort (and I use that word so loosely, it just plumb slipped right off the screen) offered to me by the teacher when I tried to convey as diplomatically as possible that I might have appreciated a timely phone call rather than a scribble at the bottom of a paper I didn’t see until this morning was rich:
“I knew it wasn’t true so I didn’t feel the need to call. Rest assured that if I thought it was a possibility I would’ve contacted you immediately.”
So… let me get this straight: If my son’s behavior is wildly inappropriate and he’s making death threats on his fellow students, but I am not suspected of being a murderer, there is nothing to report. If, however, my son is truthful in revealing me to be a homicidal maniac, THEN she’d be happy to ring me. Perhaps to let me know what time would be the most convenient for my killing spree, so as not to interfere with gym class.
Needless to say, I’m not really feeling the love for Monkey’s teacher at this moment. There is more to this story, but none of it is good, and I am tired of gnashing my teeth and wailing. Suffice it to say that pieces of my mind have been handed out and necessary troops mobilized. All without bloodshed. For the moment.
I was also left wondering if I accidentally removed ALL COMMON SENSE from Monkey’s diet along with the gluten. Whoops! Who knew that it was so commonly found in wheat? Not me!
Don’t make him angry, folks. You wouldn’t like him when he’s angry—he’ll sic his MOMMY on you. And then you’ll be dead.