Thinking fondly of dunce caps

“Did you get a call from the Headmaster today?” 

I should hang up the phone now and pretend I didn’t hear that.  “No,” I tell my husband.  “Why?” 

“Apparently your son was down there for spitting on people,” My Honey tells me.  The teacher told him all this when she caught up with My Honey as he was picking the kids up from aftercare.

I take in a huge, chest expanding breath and let it out slowly.  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Nope,” he continues, “This was the third time he’s spit on someone, too.”

Third?  How come this is the first time I’ve heard about it?  My Honey tells me of the other incidents and it only makes me more frustrated. “So what happened today?” I ask.

Apparently the class was standing in line for something and, according to the teacher who clearly didn’t see the incident from the beginning, he turned around and spit on someone for no reason.  I don’t believe that is true, but I hardly think my son is a saint, either.  I’ll admit there have been times in the history of civilization when spitting on someone has been warranted, however, there is no way The Bandit is going to convince me that anything the five year old in line behind him did or said qualifies as a spitting offense.  Spitting is reserved for Nazis and people who murder your family, not for line pushers.

This time the teacher wasted no time in hauling his butt to the HM’s office and depositing him there for further disciplinary action.

I immediately called the Headmaster.  He related the same story My Honey received from the teacher.  The HM also disclosed he wasn’t in his office when The Bandit arrived so my little boy had to sit on the bench of shame outside his office to wait for him.  You know the bench.  Every school had one.  That bench or hard wooden chair that, when you were seated upon it, meant you were in serious trouble and were just awaiting your fate.  When HM arrived, Bandit was sobbing and I guess it took some time for the boy to get control of himself before they could even talk.

“I don’t want you to think I’m mean,” I told HM, “but that’s good.  At least he had the impression he was in serious trouble.”  Not like the trouble he gets into with his teacher and, I guess, his parents.  “He’s a very difficult child to discipline,” I explained.  Nothing you do to him seems to have any effect.  My brother was just that way, too.  I felt somewhat better that Bandit comprehended the magnitude of his trouble. 

“What did you say to him in your interview so I am on the same page when I get home tonight?”  I asked.

“We discussed how he was never going to do that again,” HM told me in even, reasonable tones.  “He said the words I wanted to hear, that he wasn’t going to have a repeat of the behavior.” 

“And then you beat him?” I asked.

The HM laughed knowing I was kidding.  Sort of.

“No, we talked about how men never break their word.”

“And then you beat him?” I asked, again.

“No, Mrs. Bright,” he told me patiently.  “However, he understands if he breaks his promise, his word, then I will have to call his parents and we’ll all have to sit down and figure out what will happen to him then.”

No beating?

This is a parochial school.  When did they get all touchy-feely with the hippy discipline?  Where was the nun with the ruler?  HM’s don’t keep a ping pong paddle in their desk drawers anymore?  What the hell am I paying them for?

Of course, I’m kidding.  If that actually happened then I’d have to go down there and go all Mama-bear on their ass.  But still.

Now when I get home I have to come up with an appropriate, effective punishment, something sufficiently awful that the child second guesses ever spitting at someone again.  I, for one, do not wish to sit on the bench of shame waiting for the HM to come.