‘That’s the one, Mum. That’s the one who hates me.’
To my careful eyes, the child at the top of the slide, laughing, head thrown back, looks adventurous, not like a bully at all.
‘I’m sure she doesn’t hate you. What makes you say she hates you?’
‘Well, whenever I just wave to her and say, “Hi, Lucinda” she starts chasing me until she catches me then punches my arm.’
I look again at the girl and she, for a moment, looks at me.
‘She doesn’t hate you, my love.’
And my mother’s heart begins its bleed.
adelaide from adelaide 
Oh no. Your poor lad.
I got to ‘punches’ and while my heart didn’t quite bleed, it certainly sank. The minx.
On a slightly related note, I thought of you last night as I watched Boston Legal and looked at the lovely James Spader, still irresistible even in his recently acquired chubbiness. I assume finding familiar television is less of problem in Abu Dhabi than it would once have been, though.
A boy I knew used to punch my arm by way of making me want to be his girlfriend.
Horrid child, either way.
I have a particular glare I reserve for girls like that. And there have been many.
Ohhhhh, that’s so wonderful. And painful; especially for the son. As for the girl, I’m sure she stole my technique.
And so it begins . . .
What ever happened to frogs down the back of the neck?
3cat – teach him not to be so cool – being cool means missing out. I know.
oh and Lucinda – oooh -aah – I’m going to see Ms Williams in April
At this point, FXH, I’m doubting that I can teach either of them very much at all.
Ohhh, sweet. Did you explain it to him?
I was once (improbably) charmed by a boy who offered to give me a ride home school on his handlebars and push me off as he passed my front yard.
My daughter (5) has a friend whose ritual game of greeting with her is to “be shy of her”: he runs away, and she’s supposed to chase and tickle him. Apparently, this is a significant part of how the genders interact at his kindergarten, although I’m glad to say it isn’t a part of hers.
I suppose I’m a bit relieved that the girls are the aggressors (although my daughter’s friend initiates the game), rather than the boys . . . but, really, I’d prefer a different option entirely. Sigh.
And so it begins.