When you choose to pull the tiger’s tail, you sort of take your life into your own hands. Ok, well maybe not your life, but let hyperbole work for just a moment. Picture disastrous consequences—like gnashing teeth and growling and the spreading of rabies…or worse.
What’s worse than rabies, you ask? Well, let me tell you. It’s a mama who’s hell-bent on crushing your kneecaps with a whiffle bat (because that’s how we roll out here in the ‘burbs). It’s a cyclone of fury all wrapped up in one little red SU, rolling right up the hill…just ready to take your ass out. That’s what it is.
Oh yeah. Have I had some wine? Maybe. Have I been provoked? Hell, yeah.
You see, here’s the thing. I’m pretty protective of my little cubs, and when someone comes knocking at my door telling me that one of my sweet little innocent furballs of love has turned all juvenile delinquent, I start to question things. I start to wonder if maybe certain people aren’t stretching things just a bit, and that’s when mama tiger starts to stretch her claws.
Oh and it’s probably helpful to know that mama tiger is also a horribly hopeless reclusive troll. So, when said accusers start using the telephone to corner the reclusive troll-like tiger, the troll-like tiger naturally retreats further into her cave, using the only means of defense at her disposal—curse words and, well, sharp objects. (I’ve said ‘fuck’ a LOT during the last 24 hours, but honestly it’s because I’ve been cornered, and anyone in their right fucking mind knows not to corner an introvert, because who knows what you’re fucking gonna get, right? Right.)
Anyway, so my kid (we’ll call him Bob for the sake of anonymity) has been apparently creating a helluva mess at school. Apparently, they don’t teach this class in the advanced education classes at the university, because NO ONE, and I mean NOT. ONE. SINGLE. PERSON. knows what to do with him.
Here’s the deal. He’s seven…as in seven years old. And he wiggles. GASP! (I know…what the everloving fuck, right? A 7-year-old boy that wiggles? Say it’s not so!) Well, apparently, that means he doesn’t pay attention, and we need to give him more drugs to calm him down. Awesomesauce. I love educators.
Any-hoo, I digress. He also tends to get pissed off at kids when they make fun of him. (Crazy, no? I mean, I would totally sit there and take it, but you know, that’s just me.) I would get mad at those little shits, too. So it’s a little difficult for me to reinforce the socially correct “think sheets” that we have to do in the evenings after he’s gotten angry with the kids who’ve made fun of him. “Well, son, maybe next time we should tell them to go fuck themselves instead of punching them? Remember, we want to use our words…not our hands.” Yay, think sheets!
But Mommy isn’t angry. It’s more like Mommy feels backed into a corner, because when mommy gets four freaking phone calls in a single day from different educators, all of them wanting to increase her kid’s meds or talk about her kid’s issues or discuss her kid’s behavior problems, what happens? And what if Mommy is a freaking introverted tiger who is now feeling quite backed into a corner?
Back off my kid, Lee’s Summit. He’s a 7-year-old boy. He’s happy. He’s well-adjusted. And he happens to wiggle a little. Oh yeah, and math is freaking hard.
Ok, I feel better now. I’m taking the kids for ice cream tomorrow. Hallelujah. Holy shit.