You. Do. NOT! Mess. With. My. Kid. I don't care if you're only 6.

I am an avowed pacifist. I gently transport spiders from the corners of my home to the back patio, where I set them on the ground or in a bush, even though they litter my floor with the dry husks of roly-polies. If I see an earthworm on the sidewalk after a rain, I put it in the grass. I catch the geckos who run into the house each summer and send them back outside where there's a better chance of getting food. (Although, come to think of it, the spiders are really chowing down, so there must be a portal to Roly-Polyville somewhere in the house, and I guess a gecko wouldn't do too badly, assuming he's a roly-polyvore, like the spiders.) My list of things it is okay to kill includes: 1. mosquitoes, 2. fire ants, 3. cockroaches, if you can't chase them out of the house. I even allowed the maggots who were raining down on my head from the air duct in the bathroom to live (albeit in my garbage can.) Scorpions? Let them live. Snakes? Rats? Sure! All of this is to say that I am not a violent girl. Not usually. However, a new factor has been added to the mix, and it is about as popular as a cold sore. 4. Anyone who hurts Zoe.

I mean hurt emotionally, as well as physically. Hell, if they look at her cross-eyed, I want to disembowel them. But all that has been, until now, purely theoretical. But as of this afternoon, all bets are off. Somebody is fixin' to get a big old serving of Whoop Ass.

To begin at the beginning, when Zoe started school last year, there were only three girls (including her) in the class, and they became good friends. However, near the end of the year, one of the girls (for the sake of anonymity, let's just call her Fuckface,) had a birthday party and didn't invite Zoe. Now, actually, this wasn't a problem. It quickly BECAME a problem when Fuckface went around the classroom, pointing at people and saying, "You're invited, you're NOT invited. . ." At that point, she was clearly looking to get shivved, but I held back. At least I didn't have to buy her a present.

We thankfully didn't have to see her this summer, but at the beginning of this year, while Zoe and Fuckface were playing with some other children outside after school, Fuckface kneed Zoe in the crotch. Fuckface's father (for the sake of anonymity, let's just call him Microdick,) upon seeing Zoe crying in pain, sighed, looked at Fuckface, and said, "Say you're sorry, Fuckface," to which she mumbled something under her breath that I couldn't hear. He told her again, and again, she mumbled something so quiet I didn't hear it. When he tried a third time, she yelled in his face, "I ALREADY APOLOGIZED TWICE, WHAT MORE DO YOU WANT ME TO DO!?" That was pretty much the end of it. Apparently, for Microdick, that was enough of an apology. He led her away, and mumbled his own apology to Zoe as he passed by. The next day, peeing was painful. Again, it occurred to me that I wouldn't mind if my car accidentally tapped her in the parking lot (and then again as I backed up to see what I'd tapped.)

Still, I held my tongue.

However! Today, another mother from the class (for the sake of anonymity, let's just call her Queen PerfectSuperMom) took me aside and told me that her daughter (for the sake of anonymity, let's just call her Princess Wonderful) had walked by Fuckface's desk and saw Fuckface's notebook open to a page with Zoe's name written on it. Princess Wonderful said to Fuckface, "Why do you have Zoe's name written and not mine? I thought we were friends." To which Fuckface replied, "I'm making a list of all the bad things I want to happen to Zoe." Princess Wonderful immediately said, "Zoe's my friend!" and walked away. She then told her mother. I love this child. And I love this mother, who, upon hearing the story, told the teacher, the teacher's assistant, the Head of School, another mother and another teacher. She even put the whole incident in writing and submitted it to the Head of School, because they need it in writing to do anything about it. I later accosted the Head of School in the foyer and she said that there would most likely be a meeting with Fuckface tomorrow morning, after which they'd decide if the parents needed to be called in. I was good with that, but later this evening as I was thinking about it, I think the parents need to be called no matter what Fuckface says tomorrow.

Isn't that a warning sign? Don't the kids who shoot up their classmates with submachine guns have lists like that?

I had a really good idea this afternoon, but a friend talked me down from the ledge. I was going to corner Fuckface when nobody was looking, get right in her face, and say, "I hate you. And if I were you, I'd watch out." She didn't think it was appropriate, just because Fuckface is only 6. I don't care if you're a FETUS! Don't mess with my kid! PERIOD! Just DON'T! Because, as she and her idiot parents are about to find out, my niceness is only a facade! Underneath this soccer mom exterior, I am a seething mass of rage and evil, just waiting for the chance to be unleashed on an unsuspecting world. Now is my chance! Yeah, I may go straight to hell, but I'll take that little bitch with me.

Whew. That felt good.