They say, 'be careful what you wish for...'

Stinking 'they'. Who the hell are 'they' anyway?

So, I get to school to pick Billy up today, and overall it's been quite a good day. There have been ups and downs and he's understood most of them.

He has been crashing down people's lego creations (known at hippy school as 'bases'), and people are seriously annoyed at him. He got that. He also understood and accepted the consequences.

I can see the base crashing has a number of interesting elements to it. Bases are the number one cause of tension at hippy school, and so they should be. They are made of lego, so they are colourful and fragile. They are the product of a lot of thought, planning and (often) collaboration. When Billy crashes them, he stuffs up all of that thought, planning and collaboration. It's flat out annoying.

For Billy, it's a huge sensory release (I feel crash, I see crash, I hear crash). The desire for that crash is often related to a game he has been playing alone (today, it was a Percy's Chocolate Crunch game, with a green lego piece playing Percy and someone's base inadvertenty playing the chocolate factory). There's also the fact that by crashing a base, he gets the conversation and interaction he craves, without having to do any hard work to make it happen. No decoding language, no reading faces, no inventing novel words... just immediate attention (mostly of the adult variety, as the kids are over him by that point). Job done, Billy style.

The teachers think there's an element of naughtiness here too, and maybe there is. We don't see it at home much, but then we don't see much challenging behaviour. I'm willing to provisionally accept their reading of the situation...

So, consequences attached, Billy was banned from base corner, and the day progressed. He'd chosen animals to study in preparation for a trip to the zoo. In fact, he chose two. And he'd had a brilliant conversation with one of his younger classmates about frogs. Turns out both of them love frogs, and know 'all the frogs in the whole wide universe'.

Then, as we walked out the front gate and past the front fence of the school, three older boys from Billy's class called out to him, stopping him in his tracks.

'Hey Billy', they called in loud, slow voices accompanied by exaggerated, bright eyed facial expressions (you know the sort you are tempted to use with tiny babies or people with dementia), 'Do... you... have... a... house?'

'Yes, of course.' said Billy, to a chorus of giggles and smirks.

I was standing right there. Right next to them. Probably not the smartest choice these patronising little ingrates have made. I gave them the Mummy death stare, until one said... 'what...?'

Through angry tears, I said, 'You guys need to think very carefully about why you ask Billy questions like that...' and glared some more, until they shrank away.

Things were spinning through my head, as I grasped Billy's hand too tightly, walking back to the car. I'm thinking, Billy's so much nicer and smarter and... and.. and. But it doesn't matter what Billy is, to a lot of kids. Hell, it doesn't matter to a lot of adults. Because the thing they will struggle with, right up front, is the fact that he's different. And, different conjures up a lot of instinctual stuff in people.

Right now, I'd like to hurt those boys. I understand I cannot. But here, in a nutshell is exactly what I fear. These kids are six, maybe seven. And they already desire the power that comes from a cheap shot. They already relish the role of predator, and see my son as prey. It's primal, and it stinks.

I'll talk to the teachers. I'll talk to the kids. I've talked to Billy already. I've given him some words to consider as reactions ('I think that's a silly question' and 'Please don't disrespect me') but really, I'm pushing shit uphill. Or perhaps it's the whole moving a mountain one teaspoon at a time thing...

Am I allowed to flick teaspoons of soil into the eyes of little children? Even 'accidentally'...?