Sunday, July 15, 2012
When my son was about five years old (he’s currently a very old seven) we spent an afternoon with a group of friends. The kids disappeared to play in the basement, and the parents gathered around in the kitchen to catch up. We snacked and told stories. There was lots of laughter. It was the kind of carefree, laughter-all-around gathering that I dearly love. Then my son and his best friend came upstairs, both in tears.
“He hit me!” the friend accused.
My son—hit someone? He’s never been a hitter. So I was shocked—outraged, horrified, confused—especially when he admitted that he had hit his friend. And in a swift moment I decided and spoke: “If you can’t behave, we have to go home.”
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