Spit, Spat, Spot

Last spring, during our disastrous experiment with Apathy Elementary School, Major Havoc became fast friends with Loogie, a kindergarten student and class loner who continually challenged his teacher with his less-than-cooperative behavior. Loogie’s favorite classroom pastime was spitting. Major Havoc, making a genuine effort to be friendly, cooperative, and sociable, mastered the art of spitting. On the floor. And on the carpet. Just about anywhere Loogie spat, Major Havoc spat, too. It became their favorite form of civil disobedience against counting to five, mastering the color purple and learning the letter “Y.” It was an activity that he brought home. It was also a talent that we thought we had successfully discouraged him from demonstrating.

Then came last week.

Major Havoc spent the entire day in the backyard playing a week ago Monday. He came into the house, ignored my directive to clean up before dinner, ate, put on his Gi, and left with his mother for Karate class. In the heat of the battle, when I was helping General Mayhem complete his schoolwork, cook and serve dinner, and push the martial artists out the door in time for class, I failed to check on the boy’s cleanliness. He was filthy. He was filthy and a member of the Major’s class had the misfortune of mentioning it. The Major turned around and spat on him.

I suppose that’s one way of replying.

Rest assured, we spent the last week teaching our expectorating seven-year-old that sharing his saliva with the world as a form of editorial feedback was not acceptable. To that end, he did approach his fellow student and apologize last Monday night. The poor kid didn’t know whether to duck or run when he saw the Major approaching. So far, Sensei hasn’t taught a defense move for phlegm.

Then came yesterday. I left the boys at home while I drove Captain Chaos to preschool. When I returned, Major Havoc was standing in the living room, waiting. He had a silly grin on his face, that smile that highlights his one dimple.

“Hi,” I said, entering the house.

He sighed. “Hi, dad.”

“What did you do?” I asked. I have three kids. Sometimes, you just know.

“General Mayhem is sitting on the couch and he had all the pillows and the blanket and he wouldn’t share when I asked him if I could have some pillows and watch TV with him. So I spit on the top of his head.”

“I’m sorry,” he added.

We had a brief conversation about apologizing, appropriate consequences, and the reasons why he should not spit, and I sent him to his room while I spoke with the General.

General Mayhem was indeed in our basement family room watching a history documentary. He was spread out across one of our two sofa sections and he did in fact have all forty couch pillows behind or underneath him. He and the pillows were completely covered by one blanket, so that the only part of his body that I could see was his bobble head.

“Is the Major telling the truth?” I asked him. “Do you really have all of the couch pillows underneath that blanket, and did you refuse to share with him when he asked?”

General Mayhem stared at me with a look of complete teenaged contempt and deadpanned one word.

“Yes.”

Folks, I’ve had my fill of my oldest son’s mean spiritedness towards his younger brother. I realize that this is a phase. I realize that his behavior is pubescent testosterone driven moodiness. I realize the vast majority of the time his behavior is decent with a sprinkling of visible love and affection thrown in for brownie points when mom and dad are looking, but at that moment I had had my fill of his jerky behavior.

“I don’t blame him for spitting on you,” I told the General. I started to walk away. Then I added, “I have half a mind to spit on you, myself!”

Honestly, I didn’t pursue any discipline with the Major after he apologized to his older brother. I don’t remember if I made the General apologize to his younger brother. I probably did, but the memory is lost between the yellow pages of the phone book after I started searching for Gypsies.

I have a teenager for sale.