osama bin mama

I got a phone call last Wednesday from the boy's teacher.

Phone calls from teachers are never a good sign. In fact, I think I might dread them more than a tax audit. At least if we were audited I could be sure that everything is on the up and up.

With the boy you just don't know.

It was explained to me that, evidently, my son told one of the little girls in his class that I was going to come kill everyone in the class.

Yes folks. Kill.

So.

An interrogation was preformed. Denials were made. Quite frankly, I don't think the kid could remember what he said the day before.

And then I thought to myself, you know, even if he did say those exact words, (and this is when I had to stop and think if I had in fact threatened to kill everyone around me because that is, sadly, a likely scenario these days), even if he did throw out such a heinous remark, I wouldn't punish him.

He's six.

And he's a boy which means that war and fighting and battle and weapons are just super cool right now.

So he talked a little smack. Then again, maybe he didn't do it at all. Who knows?

And who cares?

He's six.

And I find a certain sense of satisfaction in that he pulled out the big guns. Instead of threatening to have his dad beat someone up, he choose me.

He knows who means business around here.

The photo I took of my crab apples has absolutely nothing to do with this post. I just like it. It makes me feel all fallish and domestic and not so much like Osama Bin Laden.