Brandon is at the biting age. Not that he’s biting, but getting bitten. Which is a bit shocking to me, because I thought my kid was more the bullying type than the type to be bullied. Just this morning he stole the banana from the mild-mannered kid sitting next to him. Yet two days this week he has come home with a full dental imprint on his arm. And daycare won’t tell me which kid it is that bit him. His incident report said “Brandon was standing close to Friend and Friend didn’t like it.”
Who the fuck is Friend? I want to know. The girl I ask won’t tell me. She’s tactful and diplomatic as I’m sure she was told to be. So I resort to elementary school tactics and start naming off kids. “Was it Dan?” I ask. “That kid is probably jealous that my son is so much cuter than he is.” I say that or something else overly snarky about an innocent one-year-old boy. “It wasn’t Dan,” she answers.
“So it was Sam, then?” I press. “Sam would never bite,” she answers. Which I know is bullshit, because I just spoke to Sam’s dad earlier that day and he told me Sam has been biting like a vampire. This girl won’t give up a name for anything. She’s the kind of person you want to know if you’re looking for a partner in crime. Loyal to the end. I’ve got to admire her commitment. I make a mental note to get her phone number later. You know, just in case.
I’m Nancy Drew and I’m on the case. If I have to, I will bring in enough plaster of Paris to get a full dental impression from each kid, then compare it to Brandon’s arm the next time this happens. Steve said it best: there should be some sort of a consequence for the parents of the biting kid. “They should pay our tuition for a week,” he mused. That got me thinking – $176 will certainly buy enough plaster of Paris to solve this mystery. Or, for about 20 bucks, I could probably get one of the daycare girls drunk enough to talk. I hear the bar next to the daycare makes a mean Snake Bite.