Because I love the boy you are becoming. And that boy? He has your bullies to thank.
Not in the way you think. I don’t send them cookies. I don’t high-five their parents at soccer practice. But when you came home with dirt on your new sneakers and that hollow look in your eyes—the one that says, “They got me again” —a very small, very dark part of my chest exhaled.
A boy who can fall down and get up. A boy who learns that some people are just weather—you don’t beg the storm to stop, you learn to stand in the rain. A boy who will never need his mommy to fight his battles. Because that is the only kind of boy who grows into a man I can trust to be alone in this world. mommy loves your bullies
Because they are teaching you a lesson I am too cowardly to teach: The world does not owe you softness. And if I don’t let you get a little hard, a little sharp, a little mean around the edges—someone else will do it for me.
That spine? I didn’t give it to you. Your bullies did. Because I love the boy you are becoming
Last Tuesday, you cried because three boys called your new backpack "baby trash." You asked me, “Why do they hate me?”
Someday you’ll read this. Or you won’t. But if you do: I’m sorry. Not in the way you think
The Truth About the Boys Who Broke Your Arm: Mommy Loves Your Bullies