Grief and Gravy

Oh good lord, apparently I didn't hit the correct button so this evening's post went the way of the blowing wind, and her name is Mariah. Just some of the highlights as my son's flight is delayed and I have to do mom stuff, like worry...

Let's see, first the bitching about this little girl child who tore up my classroom today, slamming tables, knocking books over, beating the counter holding the fish tank by repeat-ed-ly crashing her table into it while looking me in the eye to make sure I knew she was mad at me. The other kids are tired of it, I'm tired of it, she's been suspended for this sort of crap once already, the mother thinks there is no problem because this is what kids do at this age; I wrote her up and sent her to the office.

She starts out with little slams, and if I ignore her, increases volume and velocity to medium, then really big slams, and finally goes into Playhouse 90 with Patricia Neal on uppers and Johnny Walker Red. Drama. And then stomps out to go to the principal to complain about my professional incompetence at giving her a gold crown and the prize of prizes because I am not awed by her eight year old table slamming, book throwing, kicking other children powers.

This is the child that I would leave waaayyy out in the woods by a gingerbread house with candy cane door posts and gumdrop panes. I would make sure the witch inside was having drop in company and needed extra protein to round out the supper. I would spread adorable little plastic ponies and plastic lip gloss gems and plastic glittering sparkle jewels in an arrow design leading right to the front door. There would be a bag made out of hologram pattern paper, all rainbow-y, labeled, "Just for the Nicest Little Girl Ever" with a picture of grandma and mom smiling and kneeling with outstretched arms. Mom and Grandma would be bedecked in plastic jewelry and surrounded by winged balloons. This is the gathering bag for loot planted in the mossy banks of the woods. The bag would be playing music from whatever Hannah Montana was doing that day. This particular child, acting true to nature, would overstuff the bag with plastic shit, be weighed down, sighted by the witch looking out her window, refuse to let go of the beautiful bag filled with all the beautiful jewels, and thus be anchored so the witch could catch her, prepare a mirepoix, arrange potatoes around her, and bake at 400 degrees for ten hours.

Knowing this child, she would give the witch the shits the next day after ingestion. I will not miss this one, and I have worked with some doozies.

Be careful what you eat. It may contain children. Oh, ha ha, just kidding. (Disclaimer so I don't lose my job). Sleep well, I go to find my own child, tall and strong and true. I will give him such a hug.