Small town girl. Joins Navy. Sees the world. Flies in planes. Hunts submarines. Gets out of military and has 3 kids. Rejoins Air National Guard as an "old lady" of 38.

A humorous compilation of stories and lessons learned. Usually the hard way.

Wednesday, May 7, 2014

Crime and Punishment in the 21st Century

(CC's actual paper)

My youngest daughter came home last night and declared she had to write ‘I will not write bad words on the bus window’ five times.  My stomach sunk as I took a deep breath, and asked her what she wrote- cringing at what I might hear.


“Poopy?  You wrote ‘poopy’ on the bus window?”  Relief instantly flooded through me and I actually held back a chuckle.  Okay.  I could handle poopy.  However I must not let on my relief.

“CC you know better than to write words like poopy.  I expect better out of you.” And l sent her to bed without dinner.  Just kidding.  I’m not THAT mean.  Instead I made her scrub out the garbage disposal until 2 a.m.

The thing is, I’m pretty sure I wrote much, much worse on the bus window.  I found myself trying to recall if I was just never caught, or my old Deer River bus driver, Dale, just didn’t really care too much if I wrote ‘poopy’ on the bus window.  He had better things to worry about.  Or maybe he was just a realist.

I recall the day I was in kindergarten and sitting in the first seat.  A gross, mean first-grade boy (kid terminology) was sitting next to me going on and on with his annoying self.  Finally my blood was boiling and I couldn’t take it any longer.  I wound up like they did in the movies and with full forced punched him in his face.  I remember being instantly shocked because it made a ‘smacking’ sound- just like it did in the movies.  Yes, that was my first thought.  Did anyone else hear how cool that sounded?  My second was, Holy poopy.  What did I just do?

“Julia!  What did you do that for!?!” Dale yelled at me from the driver seat.  I could see just his eyes in the mirror- staring at me, waiting for an answer.  Mr. Mean Boy just stood there in shock with his hand on his puffy cheek.

“He was being mean to me,” I replied in a very tiny girl voice.  It was the truth.  He was being poopy and I just couldn’t handle it any longer.  So I stood up for myself.  I did something that I’m sure would be immediate school suspension for violence these days- the age in which a child is suspended for chewing a poptart into the shape of a gun.  (Sad, but true story:

Back in 1984, Dale saw it for what it was: A victorious moment for a kindergarten girl who just learned that she didn’t have to stand there and take a bunch of poop from a first grade boy.  Violent?  Perhaps.  But a pretty fabulous lesson if you ask me.  Thank you Dale, for teaching me to always stand up to poop-head people.  A lesson that later followed me around in life as I earned the call-sign “Knuckles” in the military.  But that’s another story.

And Mr. Mean Pants never bothered me again. 

Now, if only I knew what to do about my poopy-mouthed little daughter...

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