Every now and again, while reading to Nate, playing with him, or cuddling and singing with him before bedtime, I realize there’s a two-year-old somewhere being turned into a bully by his barbarian family. That’s a shame, and that kid has my sympathies, but there’s nothing I can do about it. Anyway, someday, that kid will cross paths with my son.
At that point, this kid will try to make Nate feel bad. He’ll make cracks about his clothes and the way he acts. Or he’ll ridicule him because he’s a well-mannered and intelligent little boy. Furthermore, this little troglodyte will sniff for fear to see if he can cow my boy into handing over his lunch money or toys, and try to make Nate afraid to walk to or from school. Maybe he’ll even take a crack at him.
If Mike and I do our job right, Nate will try to befriend, or at least charm the kid; explaining that picking on other kids isn’t nice or a particularly fruitful way to co-exist with his fellow humans. “Come, let us reason together,” Nate will say.
Then, if the kid calls Nate a “pussy” and tries to push him down, my boy—if I do my job right—will snap-kick that kid’s balls up into his abdomen and flatten his nose, without joy or passion.
So, fair warning, kid.
