Bring it on...

Sometimes you really have to pay attention to what your children are saying to truly understand what in the world is going on. Michael rambles. A lot. I mean, a LOT. Yesterday morning he tells me how he doesn't think he should go to school and participate in field day because he poked his hand with a pencil the day before. "We'll put a band aid on it," I tell him. "Miss Bracket said it didn't need a band aid," he answered. Okay, end of story. You don't have any real problem with your hand and are just looking for an excuse to stay home. Been there, done that, go get dressed.

Last night at dinner, the subject comes up again. He clearly has a mark on his hand. Bad mother, I know. So he takes a shower, gets his hand all clean, we use peroxide on the mark (which is quite red) and Frank determines that there is still something in the hand. "I got all of the poisonous lead out," Michael informs us. Comforting. Now the long-buried-doctor in my husband comes out. We're disinfecting tweezers and pins to try and pry the foreign object out of the now screaming child. There is blood, sweat and tears (from all family members at this point) when Frank finally stood up and said, "I need a magnifying glass." Now I'm ready to grab my child and run directly to the emergency room because the man is scaring me. I get Michael to calm down by the time Frank returned with the magnifying eye-piece and he STILL can't tell for sure if something's in the there. Now I call the doctor, or the nurse-advice-line. This kind-voiced woman must be related to my family somehow because she must have said a good five or six times "Should have looked at it yesterday". OKAY! I GET IT! I am a very bad mother. Do you know how many times a day the boy falls off of something or jumps off of something and isn't hurt? Too many to count! But sure, drop a pencil and suddenly I have to wonder if social services is going to be paying me a visit.

Long story short, there is nothing else to do at this point. We don't need for him to be seen by a doctor unless the spot gets infected. So we put Frank's medical bag of tricks away, give Michael some ice cream and I notice that Frank is quite irritated. When I ask what's wrong he announces that he is going down to that school tomorrow and lodging a complaint about the teacher. He'll stay in the office until he speaks to the whole chain of command and they know that he's pissed. Remember that scene from "It's a Wonderful Life" when George comes home on that fateful Christmas Eve and Zuzu is sick? He gets the teacher on the phone and gives her a piece of his mind? Well, that scene was playing in my head as my husband ranted and raged around the house. I almost asked him to check his pockets for Zuzu's petals, but didn't think he'd find me amusing at that particular moment. Maybe later.

Luckily by this morning, things had cooled down and there was no smack-down in the school office. We only have two days of school left with this particular teacher and I, for one, am glad. This is the same assistant teacher who sent Michael home 17 minutes after he arrived at school because of his coughing. If you hate kids so much, why be a teacher? There's a good question for you.