Loaded, August 16, 1995
I spent a lovely, tiring yet exciting eight days away from my kids, my job, my animals, and my responsibilities in Nashville at the Romantic Times Booklover's Convention. I escaped the tedium of daily routine. I worked on my book. I communed with other writers. I had fun. I should have known.
Somehow, kids always manage to get even.
Even if they don't do things themselves.
They tempt the fates.
I have dental work done on the first Monday after my trip. I thought it was time. Five years is a long time between dental visits.
Mom's always give up things for their kids.
They tell me I may need a root canal. I can't think of much worse.
I was wrong.
Also on Monday, a bully twice his size walked up and punched my twelve year old in the face. Chipped a permanent tooth. And did this in front of six witnesses.
This is a normal school day in California.
I heard he was hit. But he is the type of child whose arm could be severed and he wouldn't think to bother you about it. I didn't know he was in pain until later, when I went to tuck him in.
Since he has his own TV, and since I put one in my exercise-toy room, I seldom see him at night. He likes to strew leggos across the floor under my weight machine and watch TV. I get to step on leggos often. At least, as often as I exercise.
This time, when I got him into bed, with the covers pulled up to his freckled chin, he winced.
He was hurt.
That is not nice for a mother to know.
On Tuesday, I dragged him out of school and to the Dentist ($195). I also called the school. I was not a happy camper.
The school moved.
The bully is suspended.
They asked me if I would prosecute.
You better believe it! With six witnesses? How could I not?
My young one is not a fighter. He resolves issues. He is a socially-aware lad with a cool head. My logical thinker. He wants to be a judge. He expects me to do something.
I assure everyone that I will most definitely prosecute.
Meanwhile, my young one will be in pain for a week while nature takes its course.
The police officer says that the offending boy has no father in the home.
He says he can tell within five minutes if there is a father or not.
Like this is an excuse?
I inform him that there is no father here for my kids either. And I also have a boy aged eighteen. I've managed.
"Well, some women are strong enough to do both rolls," he says. He fumbles about for a while. His main concern is that I will back down. That I will feel sorry for the bully and not proceed. He worries about all that paperwork being wasted.
I want my $195 back.
I want my child safe at school.
I have drawn the line.
Enough.
I will prosecute.
He is right. I am strong.
I proved this on Wednesday.
My eighteen year old took my 87 Toyota Van and picked up my 7th grade car pool. A favor to me. I was running late.
A stranger called me at 7:20 AM to inform me that my son had been in a car accident.
He was ³up and walking around². But, ³it was pretty bad².
I was in my underwear. Drinking my high-protein diet breakfast.
I got dressed in sweater and long skirt in less than three minutes. I had Polaroid film left over from Nashville. I actually knew where the Polaroid camera was. I left the driveway in my truck at about 40 MPH. I slowed down.
I stayed relatively calm through red lights and pokey drivers. Imagine them keeping to the speed limit when I am going to rescue my son! The nerve of some people.
I find the wreck. My van is on the side of the street. My teen is too. A smashed old blue car sits in the center. Two black & whites are staged around the corners. It is a busy workday corner with a lot of traffic, located between the high school and the junior high where he had, thankfully, already dropped off the kids. Including my other son. There are, I note with relief, no ambulances. No paramedics. No firetrucks. This is a good sign.
My big teen is an emotional wreck. He considers himself messed up for life. He is confused. He appears, however, to be functional. I tell him to calm down and tell me what happened. I grab my camera. I see my van.
Egad.
He had, this video wizzkid, managed to keep his cool and twist his wheels so he hit her with the passenger side of the nose, a one-point hit. Head-on and he would have been history.
I am an efficient mother. I take pictures. I go out and take photos of the other car. Glass is everywhere. So are the skid marks. The cars had spun. Good. Physics at work. If they hadn't, the people inside would be far worse off than cuts and bruises.
My son shepardes me about in the traffic. It gives him something to do.
Besides, I am in flats and seem small to him when I wear them.
I wait for the police.
They tell me it was the other driver's fault. She turned in front of him and he had a green light. She claimed to have had a green arrow but there are none on the intersection. OOPS.
Her car is towed. Mine can be driven.
We have the same insurance company.
The police had a witness.
I don't ask for name, policy, etc. The police have it.
I report that my son is injured. A banged knee. I will take him to a doctor. I tell them they are lucky that the kids had been dropped off.
They agree. They don't like paperwork either.
The doctor opens a file.
My son worries that I will write another story about him. I tell him that is the least of his worries.
The insurance agent goes ballistic.
The adjuster tells me the bill will be nearly $2,000. And he's only been driving eight weeks.
On Thursday, the body shop, however, is happy.
I will finally fix the door (for another $750) that was banged up in the parking lot (twice) and on a camping trip (once). That's the dent he wanted me to remove before he takes ownership of the van.
I need to reward him for being alive.
I'll fix the dent.
It's his graduation present.
Friday, I may need that root canal.
Tonight, I'm cooking turkey.
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