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A Slight Dispute
by Glanda Widger

Bobby, age eight, and his best friend, Freddy, age nine, were playing a one-on-one game of baseball in the back yard. Bobby hit the ball and started running the bases. An old deflated beach ball, first base. The flat rock that refused to be dug up, second base. Third base was Freddy’s book bag.

As Bobby touched home plate, his mother’s clothespin bag, Freddy objected: "You missed second base. That ain’t no home run."

"Was too."

"Was not! You cheated!"

"Sez who?"

"Sez me, that’s who."

"How would you like a black eye?"

"Oh yeah, well how would you like a punch in the nose?"

"Aw you ain’t gonna punch me cause you are a big chicken. Come on chicken, brauuk brauuk, take your best shot. I dare you."

Freddy balled up his fists and advanced on his sworn enemy. "I will, I swear it. You better shut up."

Bobby could not resist the challenge. "Nah, you ain’t gonna do nothin you chicken."

"You think so? Well take that! Now am I still a chicken?"

"Waaaaaaa, I’m gonna tell! Look, I got a broke nose. I’m gonna tell your mom."

"Aw shoot Bobby, I didn’t mean it honest. Look, there ain’t hardly no blood at all. Don’t tell mom. If you do she will make us stop playing together and you are my best friend in the whole world."

"Honest injun?"

"Honest injun. Hey wanna go to my house for koolaid?"

"Wow, sure. You got grape flavor?"

"Shoot yeah. We always got grape. It is my all time favorite."

"Mine too."

The two boys walked off arm in arm, chatting happily about the merits of grape koolaid. I, on the other hand, needed a glass of wine to steady my nerves. Raising kids is tough. Having your idiot husband holding you back from rescuing your only child, while laughing like a hyena and insisting the boys will work it out, is devastating.

Maybe I should just punch him in the nose!