An Incident at School
I was walking in to pick up my middle son from a drop-off kindergarten science class, a toddler balanced on my hip and another child attending class across the hall. I turned the corner and instantly took in the scene before me.
On one side of the classroom stood a crying child, holding his face, clearly embarrassed and shaken. On the other side was my child—my Enneagram 8 if I’ve ever met one—arms folded tight across his chest, eyebrows pulled together, a teacher crouched in front of him trying to reason. I didn’t need to ask what had happened. I could feel it.
A volunteer assistant approached me quietly. “There’s been an incident.”
“I can see that,” I replied. “Let’s go figure it out.” I set the toddler down near a sensory bin and stepped closer.
When my son saw me, his shoulders softened just a bit. I like to think he knew I was there to hear him, not just judge him. The teacher was asking questions that felt off to me—“Did you hit him?”—and while it matters deeply to me not to undermine a teacher in front of a child, I gently asked if I could help walk through what happened. She looked relieved. I imagine she hadn’t woken up expecting to manage a brawl in a K–1 class that day.
“What happened?” I asked him. It’s always been important to me to understand the why, not just the what.
“Mommy, they sent us to the bathroom,” he began. The teacher explained they send kids in groups of three for safety.
“Right,” he continued, “and when we were in there, that big kid over there”—he gestured toward the sniffling boy in the corner, now staring at the floor—“started pushing the little kid.”
I looked at the children he pointed to. The “big kid” was easily a head and a half taller than my son and outweighed the smallest child by at least thirty pounds.
“He kept pushing him,” my son said, his voice shaking but steady. “I told him to stop. I couldn’t leave the little boy alone to go get a teacher, because he would get hurt. So… I punched him. Hard.”
I watched the teachers’ expressions shift. Until that moment, I think they had assumed my child was the aggressor.
By then, the larger boy’s parent had arrived. They asked their son if what was said was true. Through tears, he admitted that it was. Apparently, something earlier in class had upset him, and he chose the secluded bathroom as a place to take revenge. As I watched how the situation was handled, I began to understand why he thought that was a reasonable response.
I asked my son to gather his things, picked up the toddler, collected my older child from across the hall, and we left. We went out for ice cream.
Raising Them Right
I’m aware this story will earn me plenty of criticism. Let’s be honest—the internet makes people far too comfortable handing out judgment from behind a screen, free from consequences.
My child has full permission to rock your kid’s world if they are bullying him or someone else. I don’t teach my children to solve problems with fists, and I firmly believe in getting an adult when possible. But sometimes, it isn’t possible. When a child feels they or someone else is being harmed in that moment, standing up for what’s right matters.
It is honorable to fight for the underdog. I will not apologize for teaching my children to stand up for others. This broken world desperately needs more people willing to defend the oppressed.
My son is strong and fierce—but he is also one of the kindest people I know. He would give the same kid he just decked a hug if he thought he needed it.
These are the kids who grow up to defend the silenced. These are the kids who speak up when your daughter is harassed at a college party. These are the kids who step in when someone is bullied in a locker room. These are the kids who walk a coworker through a dark parking garage late at night.
He is strong-willed, decisive, practical, and brave. Parenting him drains the red from my hair and adds lines to my face—but I know, without a doubt, this child will move mountains for human rights. My job isn’t to extinguish his fire. It’s to teach him how to use it for good.
