Call His Mother
Last Thursday was supposed to be an exciting day. My daughter needed to arrive home from a long day at school, full of energy, ready for a busy night at the theater. It was her very first dress rehearsal, the evening before her first dance recital. There was hair to do, make-up to put on, a costume to be fluffed.Instead she dragged her feet walking down the sidewalk, her head down, her pace slow. Once we got inside the house she shared the source of her bad mood.
A fourth grade boy who had been forced to sit with the little kids because of bad behavior had spent the bus ride home telling my quiet as a mouse seven year old that she’s a “craphole.”
We are a Sponge-Bob free house, a clean mouth zone, a mean words safety area. This was certainly a new experience for my daughter, and neither of us could figure out what would possess a fourth grade boy to go for such a weak target. Oh yeah – because she’s a weak target. Fortunately, I am not a weak target. I got her started on her pre-rehearsal snack and grabbed the school directory.
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