“Did the school call you?” Henry texted me yesterday at work, except it was missing a question mark because schools apparently didn’t teach kids about punctuation way back when Henry attended.
I checked my cell phone and work phone, but I only had a staggering succession of 1-800 numbers in my call log. The usual.
And then of course I panicked, because the school doesn’t usually call to tell you that hey, your kid was exceptionally well-behaved today and literally no incidents occured and we’re going to have him tested for Absolute Brilliancy because we’re pretty certain he has it.
It’s usually something terrible.
After I told Henry no, I didn’t receive any calls, it of course took him about 15 minutes to answer me, 15 minutes in which my blood came to a rolling boil and turned my nerves al dente.
“Jeremy bit him on the arm, through his sweater and broke the skin,” said Henry’s eventual text.
Cue immediate freak-out session at my desk. Lots of “WTFFFFFF?!!??!?!?!”s and “OMG!!!!!!!”s were texted until Henry calmly told me that Chooch was OK and then reminded me who Jeremy is.
A few months ago, Chooch randomly said to me, “You know Jeremy in the after school program? He has a fake leg. I know this because it fell off today.” And then he went back to doing whatever he was doing like it was no big thing.
Jeremy has a few things working against him. The leg, obviously. And he wears a helmet because of some kind of brain injury. He is only 4, in preschool, and very small for his age. I hoped that his parents weren’t bracing themselves for some kind of empty threats of a lawsuit or bullying accusations. Because we’re not like that. Shit happens. Still, I sent Chooch an email to check in on him, and this is how little of a shit he gave about this situation:
Oh, and he beat Guess the 90s because he found a goddamn cheat online.
I told Jeannie and Mean Amber (who isn’t that mean this week considering she saved my spider plant’s life) the story last night, and just hearing the words “fake leg” and “helmet” come out of my mouth made me pause for a second and truly comprehend what a ridiculous story this was. I’m glad Chooch is OK so that we can all laugh about it!
After work last night, Chooch was telling me what happened in greater detail than the bullshit texts Henry was sending me. He’s seriously the worst at relaying any sort of information that doesn’t pertain the kind of porn he wants to watch.
I kept wanting to stress to him that he shouldn’t hold this against the kid; I don’t want him to get into the art of retaliation…yet.
“I know,” Chooch mumbled from the backseat, more interested in the video he was watching on his phone. “It’s because he has mental problems.”
“Chooch!” I cried. “That’s not nice to say!”
“What? That’s what the teacher said,” Chooch shrugged. So, add “mental problems” to that list up there, apparently.
After a little more pressing, Chooch assured me that everything was fine, and that, inspired by Jeremy’s cannibalistic tendencies, all the kids in the after school program played Zombies together afterward. I wish adult conflicts were this easily resolved.
“I can’t believe he was bit that hard and it wasn’t worse than it was,” I said to Henry that night.
“Well, he was wearing that thick sweater,” Henry pointed out.
Yes, that thick sweater that I MADE HIM WEAR. So basically what we have here is a case of a mommy saving her son’s life. You’re welcome, son.
(Even though Chooch was fine, the school still urged Henry to call the doctor yesterday. He needs five days worth of antibiotics, but he doesn’t have any helmet rabies or anything.)
ETA: Just now, I looked at the bite wound again and asked, “Jesus Chooch, how the hell did you not cry??”
“Because I’m a survivor,” he casually explained, and then went to bed.