The moment of her birth, for example. But it turns out that her hair wasn’t really red. Rather, it was transparently blonde and her head was incredibly pink.
The confusion was obvious; however, the milkman jokes were not funny.
Recently Jellybean’s paternity has come into question again, as if it were a plot twist on “Days of Our Lives.” It was a note posted on the door of her K-4 class that made me wonder if this precious child actually held dollops of my DNA, because she sure didn’t act like it.
Jellybean had the best conduct in the class all year long. (Her reward was lunch with her teacher and a friend to anywhere she wanted to go. Jellybean chose Chic-fil-A.)
Who was this child?
Don’t get me wrong. I’m thankful that Jellybean is not a problem child — like Marshall, for example, who has the habit of pulling his pants down at the most inopportune times. Or Lilly, the owner’s daughter, who is a tyrant in pigtails. Or Allie, who is as cute as a squashed ladybug but who talks so loudly you’d think she just walked out of a Molly Hatchet concert.
Jellybean is every teacher’s favorite. She’s sweet, polite, quiet and terrified of getting in trouble. Look at her funny and she’s apt to burst into tears — but even that’s so cute that it’s tempting to snatch her up and hug her so hard her eyeballs pop out. (I’m pulling out some rather disturbing imagery here. Guess that’s what I get for writing a column after watching an episode of “Game of Thrones.”)
Every day, all I hear is how great Jellybean acted. How she never gets in trouble, never talks out of turn, never slaps the kid setting next to her for no apparent reason like some of the hooligans in her class.
Frankly, I’m starting to feel about Jellybean’s behavior the way I did about The Diva’s grades: Get a B, for the love of Pete, just to spice things up a bit! Straight A’s get kind of boring, and I run out of praise.
I’m not advocating that Jellybean get in trouble; that happens enough at home. But she’s so well-behaved, I’m starting to worry how much of me is really in there.
I was what might be playfully called a hellion. I was the kid all the teachers loved AFTER I graduated from their class and moved on to terrorize someone else.
I was also ADD before ADD was cool, and the only thing my teachers could do was make me sit on my hands or send me to the principal’s office.
I’ve got nerve damage on my butt from all the licks I took, and it did about as much good as throwing Bre’r Rabbit in the briar patch for all the fear it struck into me.
I was a menace. When I was Jellybean’s age, I was in the Sunday school room at my grandmother’s tiny Methodist church pretending to be the Incredible Hulk, only I got too close to one of the windows and with a powerful “R-a-a-aw-r-r-r-r” put my fist right through it. Though I didn’t have a scratch on me, my grandmother almost had a stroke for all the worry I caused.
Come to think of it, sweet, polite and quiet sure beats a trip to the emergency room.
Contact Brett Buckner at firstname.lastname@example.org