When he was in fourth grade, The Red-Headed Menace was not the most popular kid in school. Partly this was because he was occasionally obnoxious, but mostly because he was extravagantly individual in a milieu that did not reward extravagant individualism, to say the least.
Like many elementary schools, RHM's school had a "mail" system. Kids could send messages to each other or to kids in other classes. Under most situations, this was a force for good: learning to communicate is an important skill for children of all ages, and the more competent they are at it at ten means that there is that much less to learn when they are, say, thirty.
One day, I pulled up to the school to pick up RHM and was greeted by the school's principal. I was told of how my son had misused the school communication system to insult others. It turns out that RHM, after having gotten into an argument with kids in the other fourth grade class, had sent a letter through the mail system purporting to be from all the kids in his class telling them "you stink." Before I could finish forming the obvious question, the principal cut me off at the pass. "We knew it was RHM," she explained, "From his handwriting."
Ah, yes, handwriting. All three of my sons have penmanship that most chickens would be ashamed to own up to.
The principal told me that RHM had been ordered to write letters of apology to the other class for insulting them and to his own for misrepresenting them. I was to speak to him sternly about how horrible his behavior was. And I did. With the principal watching, I managed to keep a completely straight face and lecture him on the importance of civility to his peers. When what I really wanted to say was...
"Look, kid. The next time you want to send nasty notes through your school mail system? For God's sake, TYPE them. That way you have a fighting chance of getting away with it and I won't have to have these awkward chats with the school authorities."
Hey, I've never claimed to be the world's best mother.
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