Today was pizza day at school. Logan and I have a standing date on pizza day. There is just something about school pizza. At least there was when I was in school. Now, it's just not as good. Or maybe my memory of it, is greater than what it was.
The blue plastic chairs seem smaller, but they still have the tendency to cut off all circulation below the tuchus, leaving your legs all tingly when you stand, like exploding firecrackers racing the blood back to your feet.
Two little boys at the table started it. The it that the monitors never see until green peas fly through the air, ending up in someones milk or someone has to go to the school nurse to extract a plastic fork from unmentionable places. But this one had to do with marinara sauce.
Marinara sauce. Why didn't I get marinara sauce as a kid. It was all PB&J, chips and the obligatory fruit your parents prayed that you ate, even as it made the hollow thump in the grey rubbermaid trash can by the window where you deposit your tray.
There is a certain physics that apply when the weight of a six year old boy impacts a plastic pouch the proportionate amount of spray that will be captured by the one person that is wearing white. Luckily I had little white, which in this equation equals little marinara. Probably less than 2% of the pouch. Vastly different from the dripping boy in white.
But he told me to.
Just when I thought he was destined to be a middle manager, justice stepped in and both the stomper and his evil mastermind got on their hands and knees with rags. Which is all well and good, unless you are the little boy whose last words he heard before getting on the bus were don't get anything on your white shirt.
The little red stained boy,
that had nothing to do with it,
that will go without ice cream tonight,
if he is lucky.
Which begs the question, is that really justice?