Akira and the Buttercup!

If I have to go to jail, I’d rather that it NOT be for taking out a 5-year old, but we, as parents, do what we gotta do.

Soooo…I arrive at after school to pick Jordann up. I am usually greeted by the a delightful assortment of small people with a “Hi Kaya’s Mom" (that’s my “school name”), or a “Kaya’s over there”, or a “KAAAAYYYAAAAA, your Mom is here”. Inevitable, happens every time.

Today was a little different.

Today I get a rousing round of “Akira took Jordann’s flower”. I squint my eyes and shake my head slightly with a shoulder shrug that says, “so what?”. It was a flower. Kids are dramatic. I’m hungry. Who cares? But as I walk through the cafeteria, about 12,000 kids come up to me to tell me about the flower situation. The kids are talking…must be serious!

So I get to Jordann’s classroom, and the first thing she says to me is, “Akira took my flower”. She looks distressed. My baby is not a complainer, so this must, indeed, be an issue.

“What flower, Baby?”

Aaaaand, cue the stream of conscousness run-on sentence of an excited 5-year old. “I picked a flower outside and Akira wanted it, but it was mine, so I wouldn’t give it to her, so she snatched it from me, and she ripped aaalll the petals off, and handed me back the stem.”

Of course I need to know who Akira is, STAT!

“And what did you do, baby.”

“I just stood there and looked at it in horror.” (‘In horror.’????? Where EVER does my child get this dramatic vocabulary?????)

By this time, another 175 or so kids have me trapped in a circle, giving me the details of the “buttercup incident”. All accounts jive, so I know Akira is at fault. I know Akira is a bully. And I know I am about to bust Akira in the jaw. (OK, not really, she’s 5…but she must be dealt with. Bully MY baby? That will be the very last time, Ms. Akira, that much I can tell you for sure.)

“OK. Where is Akira?”, I ask Jordann.

“In the cafeteria.”

“Let’s go!”

Just outside the classroom, I kneel down to explain to Jordann that you don’t let ANYBODY take your stuff or make you feel bad. (If this had been St. Angela Hall, Brooklyn, NY, circa 1975, Akira would have been in the nurses’ office with a bloody nose and a swollen eye, and I would have been in the principal’s office pleading self-defense But my child is a MUCH nicer person than I.) I coach her on what she is to say to Akira when we get to the cafeteria. Chest out! A little louder! Good…got it…on to the caf!

We enter a little dramatic-like.

“Where is Akira?” I say loud enough to be heard without making a scene. About a thousand fingers point to one nappy headded little girl.

I walk up to her and get in her face just enough NOT to be on the six o’clock news.

“Did you take Kaya’s flower?”

About 700 little voices begin to recount the story.

“I’m asking Akira,” I say calmly to the helpful crowd.

Silence.

I get a little closer and lower my voice for dramatic effect.

“Akira, did you take Kaya’s flower?”

Mr. M., the after school director, hears me. He is sharp and stern, and puts a fear in Akira that apparently I couldn’t. “AKIRA, WHAT DID YOU DO?”

Silence from Akira.

“Kaya, what happened to your flower?”, Mr. M. asks.

She responds with her stream of consciousness run-on sentence.

“Oh no she didn’t!!” (Mr. M. is even more dramatic than I am, if that’s possible.) “Watch my babies,” he says to me and heads out the door with Akira. “You are gonna pick her a new flower.”

So as we wait for a fresh, new buttercup, I have a conversation with Mr. M.’s kids about being kind and respecting our friends. It went pretty well, I’d say! The children actually find me quite entertaining.

When Mr. M. comes back with Akira and the buttercup (not to be confused with Akeelah and the bee), Jordann says her piece. Apparently Akira is unmoved. I chat with her about being a good friend and showing respect. I get nothing. Mr. M. explains that this is her usual m.o. and she probably doesn’t care about friends OR respect.

And that’s fine, Miss Akira, but don’t let it happen again, cause you might just end up in the nurse’s office with a bloody nose and a swollen eye…and I just might end up on the six o’clock news!