Little Victory No.42: Smackdown at the Punchbowl

Is it wrong of me to enjoy telling a kid I don’t like that she can’t do something? The way I see it, this is a kid who isn’t used to being told no, and I am more than happy to remind her what it sounds like. On second thought, that’s not entirely true, because she gets in trouble a fair amount. But denying her something she wants, even if it makes me look petty, is a small but satisfying morsel.

I do not have it out for this kid. She, however, has it out for my kid. AH (her actual initials, not just a slur) has been bullying my youngest daughter, S, for a year and a half now. They attend a Montessori school, so they will be in class together for another year and half, although the constant physical and verbal abuse my child endures makes me question my decision to keep her there. In public school, they have a slew of programs designed to identify and deal with bullying. They probably even have a mascot with a Scottish name or something. At S’s private school, I have the privilege of paying thousands of dollars a year for them to turn a blind eye.

Last year, AH was very physical. She would push S, shove her, knock her out of chairs, and even once smacked her upside the head with a lunchbox. Granted, it wasn’t a metal one like we used to have, but even those soft sided PVC-free bags can pack a wallop. And don’t forget about the ice pack. It makes a Hello Kitty lunch box the school yard equivalent of a tube sock filled with oranges.

AH has since started ADHD medication, which lessens her physical assaults. Unfortunately, AH is now more focused and better able to articulate her contempt for S, with a much greater verbal ability. She needles her daily, putting down virtually everything she can think of to get a rise out of my child. She doesn’t just call her stupid, she tells S that the teacher is wrong to think S is smart. She tells S that no one wants to be her friend because she is a liar and a tattletale. She forbids S from joining in games (much like the ostracized Rudolph) and attempts to sway other children in shunning her.

My daughter generally keeps her frustration inside, going about her day, doing her work and being kind to the other children in her class. But when she gets in my car at the end of the school day, she decompensates and gives me a detailed grievance report. She shares not only her conflicts, but the ones her friends experienced as well, and believe me, it is a never-ending list.

The situation with AH even has me questioning my style of parenting. I am an attentive, mostly patient mother to my children, and they know they can tell me anything, even if they have done something wrong. I have taught them to try to resolve their own conflicts, but never physically, and also to learn how to ignore people who persist in their hateful behavior. Overall, we try to include everyone, to give everyone the benefit of the doubt. Maybe I am not preparing them for the real world, which is more likely filled with people like AH instead of people like S. If this were 1952, and S were a boy, I would have told her to deck AH, to pop her in the kisser. But that isn't an option in today's world, where even taking a plastic knife to school gets you a year in juvie.

AH is a lost cause. Whatever her reasons, she has a mission to destroy S’s self esteem. I’ve talked about it with her teachers and the school director, but always, it is a case of an unwitnessed occurrence, over before the teacher had an opportunity to see it or intervene. I’ve pointed out that each individual event is not my concern. Rather, it is the chronic nature of these incidents, the overall pattern, with which I have a problem. But AH’s mother also pays thousands of dollars a year, and the school collects it and tells the kids to try to get along.

I feel powerless to change this situation, but when a rare passive-aggressive opportunity for retaliation arises, I pounce on it, all ninja cat.

Last week was the class play/holiday party. The teacher chose the story of the Pied Piper of Hamelin, a Grimm Brothers feel-good story that fictionalizes the disappearance of children in a small German village, the kind of story that puts even the Scrooges among us in a holiday mood.
As the unofficial class mom, I was in charge of the holiday party, making sure there was enough food for the class and family members who came to watch the performance. With the help of a few other moms, I set up the food trays before the show, then joined my husband and watched the production, trying to refrain from laughing unless appropriate to the scene. Afterwards, it was time to enjoy the goodies and fellowship (my daughter actually said that once after a similar play/holiday party combo.) I rushed ahead of the other parents, not to raid the food, but to uncover all the trays and mix up the punch.

I poured cans of pineapple-mango juice with two liter bottles of Sprite and chunks of ice—Voila! Punch!—and filled cups with the concoction when AH sidled up to the table.

“What are you making?” she asked me.
“Punch,” I answered.
“Can I just have a cup of Sprite?” she asked.
“No,” I told her. “The Sprite is for the punch. If I gave everyone Sprite, there wouldn’t be enough for the punch.” In your face, AH!

She skulked away, carrying her plate of cookies. About fifteen minutes later, she tried again, this time with her big headed little sister.
“Can we have some Sprite?” AH asked.
“The answer is still no. Sorry,” I replied sweetly.

That will show her not to be mean to my kid! Okay, it might not be the most mature thing I could do, but so what? Drink Sprite on your own dime, brat. This here is some motherfucking punch. If you don’t like it, go slurp out of that germy lukewarm water fountain. And no, you can’t have an empty cup. The cups, like the Sprite, are for punch.

I didn’t tell S what I had done, because she is way nicer than I am, but I don’t want her to know that yet. I’d like to think it would make her smile, though. She hates Sprite as much as she hates AH. She would also be happy to know that in one small way, I stood up for her. We have to advocate for our children, if only by one denied cup of Sprite. Maybe next year I will limit AH’s cookie consumption too. That’ll show her!