KIDS

I was expressing concern about my eight-year-old son, whose “talking in class” keeps him staying after school on a regular basis. In spite of discipline, threats, and punishment, he still relapses now and then. Granted, he’s remorseful, but sometimes, I guess, he just can’t help it.

After hearing my lament, my friend and philosopher W.C. just shrugged and said, “You can’t swim outside the gene pool.” It was a hard blow to swallow.

When I was in the sixth grade I had my first man teacher. He was retired Air Force and a strict disciplinarian. Demerits were given for talking or misbehaving. A monitor was appointed in each row to keep track. Staying after school was the consequence of too many demerits. Those who had a minimum were promoted each week. That way we learned about military rank. By Thanksgiving there were girls in my class who were five-star generals. I made it to corporal once.

My daughter has inherited her mother’s “keep a stiff upper lip” and “get even” stubbornness. I used to take great delight in hiding behind a door or leaping out from behind the couch shouting, “BOO!” Sometimes she’d cry, but what the heck, she was just a little kid. One Saturday morning I staggered into the kitchen, groggily poured some milk on my Cheerios, and sat down at the table. It was a quiet morning, overcast, cold outside, no leaves on the trees, tan grass, gray bark, chirpless birds, “not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.” Or so I thought.

Sneaking from her second-grade, little-girl bedroom came revenge on her hands and knees. Stealthy as a Navy Seal, down the stairs, across the rug, through the kitchen, right up under the table where I sat oblivious as Pompeii the day before Vesuvius blew.

I was wallowing my spoon around in the bowl trying to spell Oolagah, staring at the sliding door that looked like a blank movie screen, not yet able to form a coherent thought. I grasped the bowl as a primate would, to slurp. Suddenly, rising like a Trident missile, thirty-six inches from my pursed lips, across the table appeared the most terrifying visage I had ever seen. It was accompanied by a bloodcurdling scream that would break glass.

My mind could not compute. My “fight or flight” mechanism kicked in, the chair went over backwards, the table rose six inches off the ground, and the air was filled with flying objects, both edible and inedible.

I crashed!

My heart pounding, I crawled back up and peeked over the tabletop. All I saw was the back of a seven-year-old kid wearing pajamas and pigtails, swinging a stuffed rabbit. She walked back to her bedroom.

I couldn’t see her face, but I think she was smiling.