Vol. 58 - Hell is Other People('s Kids)

On the Meanness of Little Boys

There is no person on Earth meaner than a little boy.

Well, maybe a middle school boy. Or a high school boy. But if there’s an eternal theme to boyhood, it’s hurting other kids’ feelings.

I know it because I was once a little boy, a middle school boy, a high school boy.

I know it because I was the victim of the meanness of little boys. I know it because I was the supplier of meanness to other little boys.

I know firsthand the kinds of unkindness young boys are capable of, which is why it broke my heart to hear my son tell my wife and me that some other little boys said some mean things to him at a local party over the weekend.

Unlike me, my son seemed to shake it off quickly. Asked how he responded, he said he told the other kids he didn’t like being spoken to that way before finding some other friends who were at the party.

I was proud of him, and—as I usually am—amazed at how in touch with his emotions our son is.

Still, I was hurt and angry that anyone was unkind to my little boy.

Part of me wanted to run over and dunk those kids’ heads in the toilet, to be there for my son, to hurt the little fuckers that hurt my little boy. But that would be, if not felonious, at the very least patently absurd.

Part of me wanted to tell my son that sometimes, people need to get punched in the mouth. But that would be reckless and dangerous because violence is never the answer (except sometimes… when it is).

My natural inclination is to be a bit of a helicopter parent. I want to be near my kids, to be sure they’re okay both physically and emotionally. I want to make sure that I’m doing what I can do to ensure their wellbeing. And that’s a good thing, I think. To an extent.

But I’m learning to let go a little bit. And, as my son gets a bit older, a bit more independent, I let him roam a bit further afield, let him express his independence, let him explore the world around him without his dad hovering over him.

In short, these days I give him the space to get fucked up a bit more. Sometimes “fucked up” means he takes a spill I wasn’t there to prevent. Others, it means being the victim of little boys’ barbs.

Because one thing that comes with that space between parent and child is the interactions little boys have when they’re not under the watchful eye of an adult.

Kids are going to be mean. My son is going to have some real nasty shit said to him over the next several years. And no doubt, he’ll say his own fair share of nasty shit to other kids.

Still, knowing that little boys being mean to one another is as sure as the sunrise doesn’t make it any easier for me to be my son’s father. In fact, if anything, it makes it a bit harder.