Mamacita says:  Several years ago, back in the middle school, we had a student whose mother was referred to as “the mother from Hell,”  and everyone in the building knew exactly who we were talking about whenever someone said it.   She snooped through everything. She criticized the subject matter and placement of the posters on the walls. She liked to “inspect” the cafeteria. She constantly asked how other students (by name) were doing in a class, and became angry when none of us would divulge other people’s children’s grades to her. She rearranged furniture and wall art. She interfered, and infringed upon boundaries, and loved to call meetings conferences with her daughter’s teachers. Frequently. VERY frequently. For example, after every test, quiz, notebook evaluation, speech, or ‘question that went unanswered in a classroom’ issue.

She chaired all the meetings conferences. She would spread all of her poor humiliated daughter’s graded-and-returned work across the long table, and force us all to study it. Then she would pull out whatever grossly unfair score she was whining about that particular day, and start it around the table, insisting we all study it and compare it to all the previous work.

Then she would stand at the head of the table, put her hands on her hips, smile at us like a not-so-benevolent dictator, and say, “Now, I know you kids mean well.”

Yes, she called us ‘kids.’ Every time she gathered us together, she referred to us as “you kids.”

Wow, mom, can I have a raise in my allowance?

And then she would proceed to extoll the praises of the teachers in the school her daughter had attended ‘up there’ before the family moved ‘down here.’ I would really like to tour that school some day, now that I’ve finally stopped hating it, because frankly, I’ve never seen a perfect school before and I have some questions I’d like to ask those ‘excellent’ teachers, the main one of which is “How long did you kids up there celebrate after this family moved away?”

Because we kids down here had to put up with this bitch for four years: two daughters, grades six through eight.

Of course, the poor daughters had to put up with her for much longer; no wonder they opted for early graduation, out-of-state colleges, and never came back home afterwards.

Poor kids. Hers, not us.

Well, us too. But you know.