There are three boys in my ten year old daughter’s year who are known as Those Boys Who Get Into Trouble All The Time. There’s one in my seven year old’s class. Every school has them. For a few years when he was young, my brother was one of Those Boys. I can remember my parents’ anguish at having to go down the road to school to see the Principal, yet again, because of some mischief my brother had gotten himself into. But I didn’t really appreciate how difficult it must have been for them until today.

I was standing in the playground this afternoon, chatting with a couple of other mothers as we swapped kids for afternoon play-dates, when I was struck in the back of the head with something sharp and hard. The force was enough to knock my teeth together and send my sunglasses right off my face and onto the ground. I clutched the back of my head and spun around to see what it was and where it had come from. One of the other mothers picked up a small rock as three boys turned away from me with their hands in their pockets and their eyes cast upwards. Wasn’t us.

I looked down at my hand, fully expecting to see blood, but there was none. My head was aching immediately and now, about an hour later and despite a couple of pills, I’ve got a dull ache behind my left eye. So, not a serious injury, but it was all I could do to hold myself together as I turned to look at these boys and try to figure out why on earth they might have decided throwing rocks was a good idea.

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