Charlie returned home from school yesterday very upset.  He gets a ride home with the driver of a friend of mine because the bus can’t make it up our hill, apparently.  As he was waiting for his ride to leave, Charlie was sitting in the vehicle beside the open window, playing with a small toy from a candy egg.  All of a sudden, a hand reached in, snatching his new toy.  He tried to get it back, but the grown man (a driver for another family), kept it out of reach.  A struggle ensued and the man bit Charlie’s hand.

Yes, you read that correctly.  A grown man BIT my son’s hand. 

Obviously, Charlie was upset and frightened.  I phoned my girlfriend, the sister of the girls that Charlie rides home with, ‘Can you please talk with your driver and ask him what happened?’  She called me back later to tell me that the other driver was just playing, but she had told their driver to tell him to leave Charlie alone, because he doesn’t understand that type of play.

Playing?  Seriously?  The man bit my son! 

Naturally, beyond talking with my friend, I’m culturally impotent in dealing with the situation.  I can’t march up to this man and give him a piece of my mind.  I can’t shame him.  My husband, however, could. 

Only 2 more sleeps till The Mister returns.  Then we’ll see what happens to Jaws.