If You Don’t Ask, I won’t Tell

My little one got off the school bus with black gooey stuff in her long hair one afternoon.

“How in the world did that get in your hair?”

“Margie scooped some melted stuff out of the bus window and mashed it in my hair.”

“Are you sure it was Margie?  I need to call the bus driver.” ………

“Ms. Parker, a little girl named Margie smeared black gooey stuff in my daughter’s hair.  I need to talk to her mother and straighten this out.  Can you help me?”

She seemed a little huffy.  “I’ve never known Margie to do such an awful thing!”

“Well, my little girl’s hair is a mess.  She says Margie is the one who stuck this gunk in it.  You know, she’s only in kindergarten.  She says Margie is a big, big girl.  If I could just get my hands on that Margie, I think I’d wring her neck!(figure of speech)

Ms. Parker moved the phone away from her mouth a little, shouting, “MARGARET ANN PARKER!  Did you put something in Kate’s hair?”

Uh oh!  Had I known I was speaking directly to the big, bad Margie’s mother, it’s possible I might have been a bit more diplomatic.

The tiny, squeaky voice of a child who must have been all of six could be heard in the background, answering politely.  “Yes Ma’am.  I didn’t know it would stick.”  I heard a smart,  “smack, smack, smack!  and a pathetic wails.  I felt lower than dirt.

She came back to the phone, speaking to me emphatically. “She won’t do it again!”   Click.  She hung up in my ear.

Turning to my daughter, belatedly, it occurred to me to ask, “Did you know Margie was the bus driver’s daughter?”

“”Yes, Ma’am.”

“Why didn’t you tell me before I called her.  I would have been a little nicer!”

“You didn’t ask.”