This is my son Fisher. Have you met Fisher?
When he was a baby, he frequently screamed himself into red-faced fits. Someone (Herm?) nicknamed him "Mr. Furious." (Note to self: add Mystery Men to Netflix queue. Time we saw that one again.) And the name more or less stuck.
He is, not to put too fine a point on it, kind of an intense kid. He loves hard, hates hard, thinks hard and freaks out hard. And, unsurprisingly, this characteristic gets him into the occasional spot of trouble.
Were you around last year when Fisher bit Bopeep? Yes, Bopeep had just shoved Fisher into the bookcase, but the fact remains that it was Fisher's teeth and Bopeep's flesh.
Today, the boys were at class in the company of the unflappable Eryn. Jim and I were eating lunch at Lorenzo's. My phone rang. It was Eryn. It is usually not a good thing when the nanny calls (rather than texting something like "going to OMSI be back soon" or "kids havn fun @ park c u soon" which is the usual M.O.). So, adhering to my personal philosophy of never ever ever talking on the phone in a restaurant, I stepped outside and answered.
"We had a minor incident," Eryn said.
My heart sank. I envisioned bleeding children, a rampaging Fisher, angry administrators asking us to never ever darken the door of Village Home again.
"Fisher got bitten."
"Fisher got bitten? Fisher didn't bite someone?"
"No… do you know L–? He was running around threatening other kids with a pointed stick, and I guess he hit Rhys with it, and Fisher took it away from him and L– bit him on the arm."
"Did Fisher hit him back?"
"No, he didn't. He got pretty mad, but he didn't hit anybody."
My heart grew three sizes.
Fisher defended Rhys (and a bunch of other smaller kids). He recognized the danger inherent in waving a pointed stick around (he learned that one the hard way–I think I may have forgotten to blog about the scary incident of Fisher, Rhys and the sharp pointy bamboo stick). And he didn't hit or hurt anybody despite being hurt himself (a wounded Fisher is kind of like a wounded badger–snarly and red in tooth & claw).
"Will you give him a big hug for me and tell him I'm really proud of him for controlling himself?"
So apparently L–'s mom didn't fall all over herself apologizing to Fisher and/or reprimanding her kid as I would have done… but hey, that's really neither here nor there. Fisher's been working incredibly hard the last few weeks/months on controlling his temper, sometimes successfully and sometimes not. And so today, even though he's got toothmarks in his arm (L–'s sharp little incisors broke the skin!) and may well have let out a few choice curse words in front of the good families of Village Home, he is #1 on my list today. Good going, Fisher; I probably would've cracked the little stinker over the head myself.
Bonus anecdote: Yesterday, Fisher and Rhys were playing in the Land Rover. Apparently, Rhys had had about enough of whatever they were playing, because he exited the back of the car, pursued hotly by a fiery-eyed Fisher. Rhys squeaked, as is Rhys' wont. Fisher yelled at him, "You HAVE to play with me, Rhys! Get back in the car!" Rhys demurred. Fisher bellowed, "Go run out into the street, RHYS!" Fisher was promptly banished to his room. I visited him fifteen minutes or so later and told him "I can't let you say things like that, because that makes me feel like Rhys is not safe around you. And it makes Rhys feel like he's not safe." Red-eyed and teary-voiced, Fisher responded "I hate it when people don't feel safe. I don't like it one bit." And he was nice to Rhys for the rest of the evening, tra la.