There he is on the field not using his hands and not dropping down low enough. He missed another block, and he was supposed to knock the living daylights out of his opponent. If he doesn’t play hard enough, then we need to take him to a camp where the coach will knock the living daylights out of him. Maybe that will make him more robust.
The phone rings, and you hurry and place your work to the side and answer. The voice on the other line sounds panic, and she is talking fast so fast that you can barely make sense of what she is saying. So you sit down and tell her to please start over and speak slowly. When she begins to repeat herself, you can feel your body falling to the floor in slow motion only to realize that you are still sitting. But your brain can’t wrap around the words that are being spoken to you.
You get to the school and see your son looking like the little boy that you remember tucking in at night and making sure his nightlight was on. When he sees you tears start to roll down his face and the closer you get to him, the harder he tries not to cry, but that’s a battle he loses. You finally get close enough to touch him, you hold on to him for dear life.
Then you feel the police taking your son by the arm, and you wonder when did they get here. Not realizing that they were there before you. Suddenly you hear them say ma’am you have to let go because he’s coming with us. Your son’s rage was out of control today, and he sent a classmate to the hospital.
To you, none of this makes sense because your child is a naturally caring and a gentle person.
At least he was before you forced him to be something he wasn’t.
You could have chosen any blog t oread, but you chose mine, and I’m honored.