Stefanella's Drive Thru

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Matthew the Bully July 24, 2009

In the car driving home from summer camp this week. . .  

Mom, there’s this kid at camp.  His name is Matthew.  And …well…last week my friend Kenny made a joke about Matthew and I laughed.

Now Matthew says that because I laughed I have to pay him two dollars.

Pay him two dollars or what?  What is Matthew **f**k** going to do? I muttered under my breath, gripping the steering wheel tightly.

What mom?  What did you say?

What did Matthew say would happen if you don’t pay him? I asked, all sweetness and light.

He’ll hit me.

He’ll hit who? I internally raged.  We’ll see who’s going to get hit.  Threatening MY BOY??  Uh uh.  No.

Sweetheart, I reassured, You don’t owe him anything and you didn’t do anything wrong.  Laughing isn’t a crime. What do you want me to do?

Could you talk to Matthew or to the camp counselor? he asked.

Sure doll.  And don’t worry about it.  It’ll be okay.

I later consulted with a level-headed male friend who confirmed that  since my son doesn’t live here or see Matthew on a regular basis i.e. he doesn’t present an ongoing threat, it would be best to bypass the bully – unless I want to add legal implications to my troubles – and consult with a camp counselor.

So I heeded his advice.  And so far, all is quiet on the Matthew Front.



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Difficult Truths February 16, 2009

If you want to know the truth about yourself – say how you look, whether or not you’ve been behaving badly lately, if you are a fair person or if you fall to the heavy or slim side of the scale – ask a grade-schooler.

Because unless they’ve already been taught to bluff, kids are the ones who’ll give you the truth.  Straight up.  No mal-intent and little to no buffering.  They simply call things as they see them.

While traipsing Tel Aviv with my 7-year-old and his classmate during yesterday’s evening hours, the subject of Super Heroes arose.  After pulling some moves on each other and making appropriate heroic sounds the boys piped down and my son suddenly turned to me.

You can’t be a Super Hero, he said matter-of-fact-like looking me in the eye.  

Why’s that? I countered, feeling flattered to have been pulled into their  conversation.

Because your boobies are... he tapered off verbally and instead gesticulated somewhere mid-navel section with both hands.

Wait.  What is that supposed to mean? I asked, unsure of whether or not I truly wanted to know.

Well the Girl Super Hero Action figures have boobies here, he explained, reverting back to hand gestures this time at an elevated chest level.

Yeah, his friend chimed in.

They tag teamed me.  Beautiful.

And of course, I was faced with the reality of gravity and the fact that despite my son’s misguided belief that his mother is a mere twenty-four years old (who on earth told him that?), she’s not.  One day he’ll figure out that the real action figures with perky breasts are the true twenty-four-year-olds.  Far be it from me to burst THAT bubble prematurely.

But my god was it a hilarious moment.

Except for the tag team part.