You Call That A Hit
The principal knocked on my school counselor door’s window beckoning for me to join her on the other side. I shook my head, ’no,’ motioning to the boys who were laughing like full-blown loons, smacking each other in the head with pillows, almost landing into the cement walls of the counseling office. She rapped again and gave me her infamous glasses to the end of her nose, pinchy face look.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” she said as I crept outside, under the un-watchful eyes of four third –grade- puppies who wouldn’t have noticed if I had disappeared at this point.
Her mouth was set tight, straight; angry-like almost.
“That’s why I’m the counselor, and you’re the principal,” I informed her. Without taking my eyes off the boys, I leaned in and yelled, “YOU CALL THAT A HIT?” Suddenly everything got much smackier and happier and rather quickly I am pleased to announce.
Four routinely unhappy dour-faced eight –year –old boys were now jumping over the bean bags, holding each other in place, in a big huddle as they happily smacked and laughed and giggled and gleed together in the healthiest puppy heap I’d ever seen. Possibly the first puppy pile any of them had ever experienced, and now it looked like, maybe the last.
Wanting them to fully enjoy it, I yelled, “My Grandma hits better than you four!” and it started up in full delight. No one had noticed the principal yet, which added to the levity.
“None of these boys have had a birthday party or been invited to one,” I informed the principal. “Have you ever seen Jacob smile like that?” I went on.
This principal was good at loud face; she could pretend angry. But there was one thing about this principal that anyone who really knew her knew. She loved the children, and she loved the teachers, and she loved these boys, and she loved me.
She immediately understood.
We watched the puppy pile in silence for a couple of minutes.
“This is so smart!” she whispered.
We were standing next to each other, hugging now. Two mama bears, watching our cubs, knowing they would never be the same.
“Do it,” she whispered. “You do it,” I urged her. In the end we yelled it together,
“YOU CALL THAT A HIT?”
Copyright © Caren Krutsinger | Year Posted 2018