I blame the parents

I'm trying to raise socially responsible, kind children who are well-adjusted and who can respond with calm and confidence when life doesn't go their way.  Really, I am.  But every once in a while, I really do want to encourage the kids to just kick the shit out of some little prick who clearly needs it.  

Again, only harder this time, honey.

Take today, for example.  We were at the park, having a perfectly nice time feeding the ducks and cleaning goose poop from between our toes, when for no apparent reason, some kid started in on Michael.  To Michael's credit, I thought he handled it pretty well.

"You're little.  I'm big.  You're an idiot."

"I'm not little."

"Oh yeah?  How old are you?"

"I'm four."

"Well I'm four and a half."

"Actually I'm four and three quarters."

"Well, you're stupid!"

Now, I knew that this child probably didn't arrive at his particular state of misanthropy on his own; this sort of behaviour manifests itself in either the attention deprived or the brain damaged.  The child had obviously received considerable assistance in this area from his father, who spent the entire time yakking inanely into his mobile whilst scratching his balls, so it's entirely possible that the boy was both.  It was only when someone else's father intervened because the kid nearly pushed a smaller child off a climbing frame that the father grudgingly detached himself from his intense discussion of the sublime joys of football and corrected, briefly, his kid's behaviour.  Hang up and pay some attention to your son, you self-absorbed asshole, so the rest of us won't have to.

One of my earliest childhood memories is of an event that took place on a playground in Long Island.  My family had gone to a party at a relative's house.  I was probably 5 or 6 and terribly bored, so my mother took me to a nearby playground.  There was a rocket-shaped climbing frame, which I and some other bigger boys were playing on.  The bigger boys, who were at the top, began shaking the structure, which frightened me.  I'm not sure why, maybe I thought it would fall over, or take off.  Anyway, I started to cry, and my mother intervened, yelling at the boys until they stopped.  

This was not my proudest moment.  I was not only ashamed because I was crying, but I was mortified that mommy had to come to my rescue.  For this reason, I try to avoid stepping in when my own kids are having a confrontation, unless whatever's going on is obviously likely to cause them serious harm.  Instead, I try to give them some approaches to help them deal constructively with similar situations, though God knows I'm not in the best position to deal rationally with someone else's bratty kid, and this discussion usually doesn't take place until well after the event, so I'm not sure it's really sinking in.

My resolve was starting to wear thin after the first altercation, when I heard Michael crying on another piece of play equipment.  Another boy had apparently stepped on his arm because he wanted to get past Michael.  OK, fair enough, these things happen, and I explained that to him.  But then a pair of five year olds were trying to dislodge him from his position (he was, to be fair, blocking the only passage).  To understand this exchange, you will need to bear in mind that Michael's chin recently lost an argument with the edge of the bathtub, requiring a visit to the A&E and resulting in a fairly ugly and occasionally bleeding scab.

"What happened to your chin?"

"I split it open."

"HAAA! HAAAA! He split his chin open!"

"Waaaaaah!  He laughed at me when I said I split my chin open!"

It may have been wrong to tell Michael that the boy taunted him because he was insufferably ignorant and deeply unhappy.  It may have been wrong to tell Michael that he shouldn't be too upset because that boy will most likely grow up to sell life insurance.  It may have been wrong to counsel Michael to label such a person a miserable git and to toss him in the rubbish bin of total disregard.  But the intent was good, and my Irish was up.  And, to be honest, I have painful memories of being teased as a child which always surface at such times.

Years ago in a life skills seminar I attended, the group was asked what makes parenting difficult.  The best response, the one that sticks with me today, was from a young single mother who had a reputation as something of a nasty piece of work.  It's the things other parents don't do.  Profound yet simple.  

Here's another bit of profound simplicity: if you're not going to bother actually raising your children, don't have them in the first place.