Where's John Stossel when you need him?

Can we talk about my kid getting kicked out of school today? Can we talk about how you're assuming that I'm referring to Miss Bugglehub in a Dress, when in fact I'm talking about What the Hell Happened to My Precious Baby Boy?

Apparently he's a hitter.

Today, I had already killed half my morning by taking Bugglegirl on her very first dental appointment (I'm not complaining, it was adorable), only to return to the preschool co-op to learn that Buggleboy was on an apparently-uncontrollable, violent rampage: he bonked two four-year-old girls on the head with a toy. There were tears, and allegedly an indentation. He needed constant supervision to avoid further confrontation, and the co-op was shorthanded. The implication was clear: either I stay in order to restrain my incorrigible, antagonistic child, or I remove him from the premises. I knew I shouldn't have dressed him in that black trenchcoat from Baby Gap.

Don't get me wrong; I was mortified. Certainly his behavior was unacceptable. It's left me wondering where my sweet, obedient son went. Lately he's been going limp when he doesn't want to be picked up, and throwing himself on the floor, screaming in dramatic disgust, when he's upset. In other words, he's been acting like an almost two year old. As for the violence, I have noticed that he's started standing up to Bugglegirl, the eight by ten section of den in front of the TV transformed into a coliseum of sorts, a place where two gladiators attempt to fight to the death, or at least until Mommy finishes applying concealer and a coat of mascara. It ain't pretty. But expulsion-worthy? Give me a break.

No, really - PLEASE - give me a break. I live for Monday and Wednesday mornings. Never mind that I end up spending a good percentage of them helping out at the co-op, or shuttling one kid to an appointment, or trekking who knows where for some b.s. work thing that never pans out. It's still a much-needed respite from the daily monotony, a welcome opportunity for me to use the restroom without a cheering section and a chance for the kids to interact with peers and become familiar with paint - that colored, stain-making stuff that Mommy won't allow in the house.

Obviously, I really didn't have a choice. There was no way I was getting suckered into watching six rugrats and possibly changing a foreign poo diaper just to avoid running errands with my kid. So I took Buggleboy to Target, where he cried when I wouldn't let him play with the stocking stuffers I tried unsuccessfully to keep hidden in the cart. If this whole debacle blows the lid off of Santa, I'm gonna be pissed.