My Son’s Teacher is a Dim Bulb

The day he did the unthinkable…

Photo by: Lee MacMillan

Alright, so I get this call last week from my son’s kindergarten teacher: “Hi! How are you doing?”

Me: “You’re about to tell me.”

Her: “Well, we had a little problem today…” in her serious, purring voice.

I’m thinking, OMG, he’s got a broken bone, peed in the middle of the classroom, all these things running through my mind. There is no rhyme or reason to this woman’s calls home. One time Simon cut both his knees to where he nearly needed stitches, and it was a shock to see him come off the bus all bloody, and no phone call from the school. But she called once when he stuck his tongue out after a fellow classmate called him a bad name. So I just never know.

Her: “We were just doing some work with scissors–the kid scissors, of course…”

Me: “Uh-huh..” I’m growing more alarmed by the second, grabbing my car keys, ready to fly down there to pick him up to rush him in to get stitches.

Her: “And, it just happened so suddenly! One minute he’s there cutting his construction paper, and with 20 kids I can’t keep my eye on each one every second…”

Me: “Yeah?!” I’m yanking my coat off the hanger in my closet.

Her: “…but when I looked over, he had the scissors right above his eye…”

Me: “YEAH???!!!” I’m shoving my feet into my shoes.

Her: “..and he cut off a piece of his hair,” she finished anxiously, as though he had cut out his own eyeball.

Me: “Oh.” I’m frozen still, then slowly begin to take off my shoes. “That’s it?”

Her: “He cut it pretty close to the scalp. You can tell where he cut it.”

Me: “Okay. Well, is he ok?”

Her: “He’s fine, but he cut his hair.”

Me: “But he’s fine?”

Her: “It’s right in the front.”

Me: “Oh.”  WTF am I supposed to say? 

Her: “I have the hair. I’m putting it in a little baggie for him to take home with him.”


Me: Speechless. I have to refrain from asking, “Am I supposed to glue it back on?” I finally manage, “You don’t need to do that.”

Her: “Really? Ok, I’ll just toss it then if that’s what you want.” 

Me: “That’s what his barber does. He’s scheduled to get a cut on Wednesday anyway.”

Her: “Well, I just wanted to let you know.”

Me: “I appreciate you keeping me informed.”

That afternoon I had to squint to see where he’d cut it, he had to point it out to me. He’d cut like 5 strands maybe a half-inch off.

UPDATE:  This was a previous post here on my blog, and I eventually learned that she only called me when it wasn’t too serious. Later in the school year when my son broke his arm at recess, she had the secretary call to inform me.