Friday at the Club was -- not dull.
Almost immediately after children and teenagers started arriving after school, I dealt with several disciplinary problems, one right after the other, and narrowly averted a momma fight in my office. For the uninitiated, a "momma fight" occurs when two mothers let their mouths precede their minds, and say things to one another's children -- or to each other -- that usually have no business being said.
Today, the unfortunate remark in question: "Is that the other little worm who hit my daughter?"
And the mother of the "little worm" is convinced the staff treat her children differently than everyone else, and that's why they're so angry all the time.
Yeah. That's it.
She doesn't seem to consider the alternative: they're treated differently because they're so angry all the time, and that anger leads to foolish actions that lead to consequences. Besides anger, there's a deep vein of disrespect toward authority.
There was a time, many years ago, when I would have tried to play therapist and resolve the problems. Well, I have a much thicker skin now, and a crustier attitude, and I think my "just not interested in your crap" demeanor went a long way toward quelling their disturbances today. They can get therapy on their own dime.
Which makes me realize I'm more like a couple of my fictional characters than I previously realized.
We writers don't often like to admit it, but every character -- even the nastiest ones, the craziest ones -- are pieces of ourselves. In my case, there are a couple tough-minded individuals I wish I could be more like than I am in real life. But, as I continue to write them, maybe some of those fictions are becoming truths.
That's not so bad. Not bad at all.