Weekly SO

 About 12 or so years ago a teacher in my son's school happened to say to him: 

"Why did you tell your mother, you should not told her..." (that he got some unjust punishment in recess, but that really does not matter). Said a teacher to my son, in his shcool.

The next morning I was screaming the head off the principal, with fomaing mouth that how the hell DARES SHE to say to my son, that there is ANYTHING in this world, he "should not" tell me. 

I was raising him, and hammering into him that whatever it is, really, WHATEVER, he should come to me first. Even if he done something really bad. Even if he killed someone. I want him to come to me first. I will help him dig a grave, then scream his head off, then I will help him to figure out what next. But he SHOULD. COME. TO. ME. FIRST. 

I think I was successful, so much so, that when in an outing he fell of a tree and broke his femur (thigh-bone), and he was out of his mind with pain, and later when the doctor arriving in the emergency car, pumped him with painkillers so much he hardly knew his name, the only thing he kept repeating: "Mom, call mom, please call my mom. And when I reached" him, the only thing he told me: "Mama, come for me mama, come for me."

That is the thing. He still comes to me first. 

And I still would scream off the head of anyone, who would tell a kid otherwise.