The day before yesterday the big ol' yellow school bus rolled up and opened its doors allowing my boys to stumble down the steps and take off at full speed toward our house.
I happened to be in the garage and heard the bus driver hollering the name of another child. Happy that it wasn't my kid's name she was screaming for a change, I was anxious to hear who it was getting in trouble.
Jake was the first to arrive and I asked him ... because I'm nosy and immature like that. The name of the boy was told and I asked what he did, because the bus driver didn't sound happy AT ALL. Jake filled me in, "He punched Drew in the face."
I was a little shocked, "OUR Drew?"
"Yeah." Jake shrugged and disappeared inside, as if it were no big deal.
A moment later Drew appeared. There were no visible marks on him or anything, which of course was a relief. "Buddy!" my motherly instinct set in and I just wanted to hug him, "What happened?"
The same story was told ...
"What did you do?" I asked Drew.
"I concentrated REALLY hard and tried not to cry."
I was proud. My sweet boy.
Big Daddy on the other hand has told me that he has a little something he needs to teach Drew ... I don't even want to know.
