"No."
"Code yellow is practice for code purple. The principle dresses up like a criminal!"
"What does he do?"
"He wears a criminal suit, you know. Messed up jeans and a black jacket with spikes. He has a toy gun and he was pretending - and, uh - everyone thought it was real but me. He was a robber trying to kidnap kids!"
"What do you do when this happens?"
"We all freak out pretty much."
"...Oh."
"There's a code purple too."
"What happens then?"
"Bomb threat. duh."
"What happens when there's a bomb threat?"
"We all just jump out of the windows - even the teachers! But sometimes we just hide. But when there's a code blue, we all have to go to the side of the building, in the closet and hide in there."
"How long?"
"Until it's over. Someone takes cover cause it means there's a GUN threat. a GUN threat!"
We didn't have this when i was in school. We had nothing of the sort. We had fire drills, where we crossed our arms over our chests (why?) and walked outside in an orderly fashion really slowly (why?). We had tornado drills, where we curled into the fetal position and crossed our arms over our heads against the wall...as far as I can remember, that's it.
(We were also checked for head lice and scoliosis regularly. How bizarre. What made them decide to check for head lice instead of cavities and scoliosis instead of ... I don't know... carpal tunnel?)
Dylan was explaining this gun threat and he was so excited that he knew what to do. While I am proud my 6 year old son can properly handle a Columbine-type situation, I can't help but google every bit of information on home-schooling as possible...not long after realizing it's not an option. Instead, I will devise a plan that allows me to sit in front of his school all day long, watching for this gunman, who will undoubtedly be wearing messed up jeans and a black jacket with spikes. Hopefully work will understand why I need to set my office up to run out of the trunk of my car.
In all honesty, this terrifies me, as I am sure it does all parents. I do believe the school is doing all they can to protect Dylan and educate him without frightening him - something I can only do when it comes to germs.
In other news, I accidentally dropped the F Bomb in front of my mom today after work. Apparently, I was still in work-mode, where, sadly that is every third word out of my mouth. I immediately felt like a total degenerate, but I tried not to draw any additional attention to it. I also decided that I need a longer commute from work to their house so I can decompress and filter that word out of my vocabulary after I leave. . . sorry mom. Love you.
No...Seriously...Love you. You just can't tell sometimes.
You know, I was worried when I started this public blog that I would lose interest, considering I have the attention span of a circus flea. But today my mom told me how much she enjoyed reading it. I picture her sitting quietly whispering the words aloud (cause that's how she reads) and gaining some enjoyment out of it, and it making her happy. (well, happy for the most part. I'm sure I'll throw some typical Sarah stuff in there to disappoint. It wouldn't be MY blog if I didn't include some stupid shit.) And that makes it more worth the trouble. I like to think of my mom happy. It's a nice break from the normal disapproving glances she gives me and head shaking she does when she thinks I'm not looking.
"Motherhood...all love begins and ends there" - Robert Browning
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