Got chocolate milk?

I still vacillate over whether Kaila is my daughter or not. She kept all of Mike's recessive genes and rejected my dominant ones. So, she looks nothing like me. However, it appears that she's inherited her mama's Scrappy Doo-ness. The genetic proof reared its head a few days ago at school.

First, a flashback. When I was Kaila's age, I remember sitting on the classroom rug, listening to the teacher read a story. At some point, I must have asked Mrs. Wimpydimple a question about the book which resulted in a classmate telling me to, "Shut up, chocolate milk." Because my parents never taught me the art of the bitch slap, I resorted to verbal jousting. "NO. YOU SHUT UP, WHITE MILK," I screamed. I don't recollect the teacher doing anything, probably because she didn't.

Fast-forward to my little girl. A few weeks ago, I posted about a "bully" in one of the Doobies' schools. Well, Napoleon is in Kaila's class. The teacher assured me the situation is being handled, but I continue to hear stories of poking, pushing and other annoying behavior. As a result, I bought "An Eye for an Eye for Dummies" and have been teaching the kids hand-to-hand combat.

The other day, I picked up Kaila and her friend J-Shizzy from school. As we drove home, I peppered them with my usual, meddling questions: Who was the helper child? What did you have for a snack? What did you drink? What did you learn? Was everyone well-behaved? Did anyone wet their pants? Did anyone get into trouble?

The answers were coming back positive. Granola bars. Apple juice. The letter G. All pants stayed dry. No one got into trouble. Cool. Things were looking up until Kaila remembered.

"There was one thing, Mom."

"What, Kaila?"

"Napoleon pushed me when I was on the rollercoaster car in the bike room"

"For real? Was it an accident?"

"No. He did it on purpose."

I try not to jump to conclusions, but given Napoleon's dynamic past, I was pretty sure she was straight-up telling me what happened. And, whether he bumped her, pushed her or strangled her, is irrelevant to me. The kid needs some boundaries. Or, invisible fence.

"After he pushed you, what did you do?"

"I pushed him back and told him to stop it."

I gave my baby a huge high-five and told her if Napoleon ever touched her again, she should hand his ass back to him on a platter. My baby may be half-and-half, but she's definitely part chocolate milk.