Sometimes my son hits his friends.

Mostly just his very best friends. Like today when he walloped sweet little Michael squarely in the middle of his forehead with a plastic watering can. The sound, a distinct crack, horrified us all. As the victim’s mom swooped her sobbing toddler up into her arms -- I panicked. I was like the unwitting accomplice to an assault I had no idea was going to go down.

But I’d missed the signs and now it was all my fault. He’s only three. “I a hitter,” he said to me recently. Sentences are new for him and verbs don’t always make it in.

How did I come to raise a hitter? I wanted to cry. Even though Michael’s mom and I are solid friends and respect each other as parents, only tense goodbyes were exchanged as my son and I escaped the poolside crime scene as quickly as possible.

We could not get showered and dressed fast enough, what with the weight of guilt for two dragging me down. Driving away, I wished that if it had to happen, I could be the hitter and my son’s innocence might be preserved.

By the time we got home, my racing mind felt a little frayed at the edges. I called someone who knows how to really listen and let the tears roll.

We count a couple of biters and a pincher among our close circle and we love them all. I’ve always done my best to be a parents’ ally in these situations, even if their angelic offspring left bite marks.

Together we’d brainstorm strategies, align ourselves on the appropriate responses and support each others’ struggles to raise gentle, compassionate children.

“One day the violence will end,” a friend replied when I confessed our sins of the day.

It’s agony to see your child get hurt. Now I’ve seen the view from the other side -- and I know how much that hurts, too.

By Katherine Csizmadia

Labels: Katherine Csizmadia

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