“Max pushed me.”
It’s what Rory says on a near daily basis when she comes home from preschool before showing me all of her battle wounds from a hard day’s play.
The first time I heard it, I went into full-on protective father mode. Yes, I even emailed the lady who runs the preschool (I did it in good taste, c’mon now…). A certain part of me wanted to meet Max after school in the alley and whoop his little ass. But then I realized... Shit... He’s 3.
When it happened the second time, I noticed something. Rory wasn’t distraught when she told me. And thinking back, she wasn’t the first time either. She was kinda smiley about it. She had a little gleam in her eye. But then she added to the story by telling me how she fell off her bike.
The third day, it was the same story — starting by pointing out her scrapes and bruises followed by tattling on Max and then the whole falling-off-my-bike bit — but she added another element... The cat bit her. Yes, a scary cat (she even acted it out with her hands like claws and her teeth like fangs).
The story about Max grew in subsequent evenings to epic stories of how, afterwards, she pointed her finger at him and said, “Max — don’t PUSH me! That’s NOT nice!” (Yes, I taught her this.)
It’s then that I realized... She’s already a drama queen. Hell, why am I isolating this to her? We’re all hard-wired drama queens.
When I hear two people talking and their tone reverts from peaceful chit-chat to talking about a conflict of some sort — FOMO immediately kicks in. I want to find out what the drama is. And when it happens to me, I can’t WAIT to tell someone about it (or write about it here).
Is it ego? Is it bad? Is it good? I don’t know. I just wish you’d stop pushing me.