My son came home from school this week and told us that he is being picked on by another kid in the playground.
A little punk by the name of Brian.
Naturally, we were very concerned. I immediately tried to sit my husband down to have a discussion about how to handle this somewhat delicate situation, but my husband didn't want to discuss it. Instead, he disappeared into the spare room to 'think'.... and in his 'thinking room' he stayed for quite some time.
When he emerged, he had the following solutions to my son's problem:
CLEAN SOME CARS and paint some fences
His first thought was to send our son round to the yard of a little, gentle Japanese man (who is actually a top-notch Karate master in disguise). There, he could spend his weekends putting wax on and then taking wax off dozens of cars and he could paint metres of wooden fences, thus inadvertently learning the craft of Karate.
Then, should Little Punk Brian approach him in the playground and give him any grief, our Stanley-San would be well equipped to take him down with an impressive high kick to the chops.
My response: Great idea....if you want our kid to end up getting expelled and living out his days trimming bonsai trees, whilst all of his peers learn Maths and English and head off to University to pursue their dreams.
He agreed.Too harsh. So he moved on to his next plan of attack:
Get 'THE EYE OF THE TIGER'
My husband suggested that we send our son off to the local boxing club after school, where he could learn the skills required to attack and defend himself. Even though we're not Italian, our kid could still become a stallion he thought.
'Really?' I said
'Yes', he said. 'The world aint't all sunshine and rainbows', he said .'You, me, or nobody is gonna hit as hard as life. But it ain't about how hard ya hit. It's about how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward'. Profound words, I thought.
Not his words, I realised later
My response: Although I appreciate the importance of teaching a kid to defend themselves in this ever- brutal world, there's no way on Earth we could fit a pair of boxing gloves into our son's already crammed school bag. Furthermore, I don't want to encourage any form of attack that may damage his hands and thus ruin his chances of ever becoming a famous concert pianist or brain surgeon.
My husband agreed....too dangerous. Abandon the plan.
His final offering of a solution was:
USE THE FORCE
My husband suggested that we send our son off to a Jedi Master to learn how to use 'The Force'- the ultimate form of control and power that can be accessed through one's mind alone. No physical exertion necessary. Little Punk Brian would never mess with our kid again once he has experienced having his underwear pulled clean over the front of his head by our son, whilst he stands on the opposite side of the playground. No repercussions. No expulsions. No injuries.
Victory would be his.
My response: Although I appreciate that this is the least aggressive defense that our son could use on the playground, travelling to space to learn from a Jedi Master is an expensive business. Despite being fully prepared to remortgage my house to pay for space suits, rocket fuel and light sabres to help our son, I doubt that at the age of 5, he would have the concentration span required to learn such a huge mental craft. He can't even concentrate on a whole 6 minute episode of Peppa Pig...how could he focus on the complex teachings of a Jedi Master?
We concluded: Too expensive. Perhaps when he's older.
I reasoned with my husband and told him that not all of life's problems could be solved by consulting his glorious DVD collection in the 'Thinking Room'. A DVD collection does not give us the answers. It's not the Bible.
He disagreed. Strongly.
"That's the truth!" I argued....and 'You can't handle the truth!!'
"Well, nobody's perfect", he retorted. "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn", he continued angrily.
"Well, this Little Punk Brian needs to be sorted", I said. I'm the one to do it. "A boy's best friend is his mother", after all!!
Jay stomped out of the room to get a beer. "I'll be back!"
He came back and the conversation continued all night. Finally, we came up with a plan to stop Little Punk Brian in his tracks:
We're gonna tell his teacher on Monday.
Watch out Brian, Mrs Jolly is coming for you!!!