So today at 1:00, I picked up Baby A at Kids Kaleidoscope, and like I do every school day, I asked her, “What did you do at school today?” Usually she answers back with some fun little thing like, “I paint.” Or, “I eat a snack.” Or, “I play on the swing.” Always fun, innocent times in her happy little preschool world.
TODAY, when I asked my precious Baby A what she did at school today, she answered, “I cwy.” “WHAT, my precious angel?? You CRIED?” I shrieked, alarmed. Thumb in her mouth, she nodded “yes.” “Why, my dear, sweet angel, did you CRY? Did you get hurt?” Again, thumb in the mouth, she nods. “C*** hit me in the head. And A*** hit me in the head.”
At this point a wave of nausea washes over me. How DARE those little brats hit my sweet angel in the head!
So, like all obsessive-compulsive mothers do, I called Mrs. Theresa as soon as I got home to find out the scoop. It is possible, though I hate to admit it, that my sweet, innocent, precious baby just *MIGHT* be somewhat at fault here. Not likely, by any means, seeing as how she is so precious, sweet, and innocent. So I call Mrs. Theresa to find out the truth. Was my baby at fault…or not?
“Yes,” says Mrs. Theresa, “they did hit her. They were all playing with the Little People Farm, and I don’t know why, but they hit her in the head, and she cried. I loved on her and she was ok and didn’t seem to have a bump or anything, and then it was ok.” Mrs. Theresa was very apologetic, and I assured her I was ok.
OK, now my blood is really boiling, because just as I secretly suspected, my baby was completely innocent. How dare they.
What I WANTED to do was to run shrieking down the highway after those two little brats and yank their pigtails, spank them on the bottom, and put them to bed without dinner. And teach their lazy moms to better discipline their bratty kids so they will never again hit my precious angel.
But then I got a grip.
I know its all part of being a two year old, and being in preschool, and playing with Little People Farms with other two year olds. I know she’s gonna get hit. And maybe even bit. God forbid. And maybe now and then fall out of the swing and scrape her precious little knees. And she’ll shake it off and keep playing.
While her mom (aka me)chokes back the bitter tears, her hair turning ever grayer, her face ever more wrinkled, with every tiny little injury (real or perceived) Baby A suffers.
Because, surprisingly enough……..it really does hurt me worse than it does her. Who would have thought?