When I was ten years old, Tiffany Murray, my next door neighbor, took me aside in Ms. Whitman’s fifth grade class to tell me that her friend Jackie was calling me out. This might have concerned me more if I had had any idea what it meant to be called out. Called out where, I remember thinking. Out to the hall? Does she have something to give me? Gosh that’s nice of her — I mean, I barely even know her…
Turns out when someone calls you out, it means they want to fight you.
At ten years old, I was the smallest girl in my class. I weighed like forty pounds. Jackie, on the other hand, was a bigger girl and she was one year older. Furthermore, there was no real reason why Jackie should want to beat me up. As far as I can remember, we never actually spoke.
I mentioned to my teacher that this Jackie person apparently wanted to hurt me, she called in Jackie and gave her a good talking to, and nothing ever came of any of this, but I’m now wondering if I haven’t sidestepped some important adolescent milestone.
I bring this up only because today I’ve been socked twice in the left eye. Once when Kai bounced his shooter marble off the floor of the playroom and then straight into my eye with remarkable force. I think this may be the first time that either of my boys have physically hurt me to the point of tears.
And then later on this evening as I was getting out of the car I somehow managed to clip myself again in the same eye with my car keys.
I have a slight suspicion that I may end up with at least a modest little shiner tomorrow morning. And a part of me wishes that I would be able to explain the black eye with macho description of some kind of sexy bar fight. The truth — marbles, and my own clumsiness, for god’s sake — is much less exciting.
Guess I’ll just have to add this one to my bucket list.
eleven bee 