My Son's First Fist Fight

My son is 4 ½. 4 ½. I witnessed him getting punched in the face while the “perpetrator” (can a 6 year old be a “perpetrator?”) sat on top of him and a group of 5 other kids stood around yelling “Fight. Fight. Fight.” That there my friends, is a defining moment in a boy’s, and mom’s, life.

I would never consider myself a helicopter mom. In fact, I think I’m fairly laid-back when it comes to “protecting” my kids from life experiences. Even at the young age of 8 months, when my son would crawl into spaces too small and then cry big tears while he awaited rescue, my husband and I would watch with careful curiosity to see just how he would get himself out of the mess he had gotten himself into. It was our decided parenting style that we wanted him to figure things out for himself & not wait for mom and dad to swoop in and rescue him.

Well as I sat on the hill watching my son, the youngest of the group, play soccer with a group of boys, it was pretty clear that today, he was in over his head. During the game he was always a step behind, kicking ankles and diving for the ball- all in an attempt to somehow stay in the game and run with the big kids. When the ankle kicking and grass-diving technique was not delivering the intended results, my son switched to a game of tackle soccer. This is his typical back-up plan. He absolutely loves wrestling with older boys and usually, they get a kick out of his small fry attempts at bringing them down.

Not today. They tired of his antics quickly. I could see their annoyance building from the hill. I cautioned with yells, gestures and my mom “looks” for Jagger to stop. He would for that minute but the following minute, he would resume. I continued sitting there looking over my shoulder so I could give the dismissive “boys will be boys” shoulder shrug to whoever was watching (no one was) and when I turned back around, there was my son, pinned against the earth with an expression of complete bewilderment and total confusion. If you looked at me in that moment, I likely had the same expression on my face.

I yelled, “Stop! Stop! Stop!” but for each one of my yells, it was echoed with “Fight! Fight! Fight.” I ran, down the hill in my high heels and dress, as the other parents gathered on the deck and hill, in my mind, to see just how I would handle this moment (obviously they were simply gathering to see what was going on). I pulled my son off the ground and bore my eyes into the offenders. “ What do you think you’re doing?!!” I yelled. Jagger said, “He punched me in my eye-ball!” and one of the other boys added, and “Kicked him in the face!” (that, I did not see, thank goodness). I did the one arm drag to the nearest tree where I sat my son down for a time-out. Through sobs, my son said, “but he started it” and I knew, in the end, my son had been asking for it all along. I told him we were going home but he begged to stay.

After a short 5 minute break, he was back on the field like nothing ever happened. I however, was not getting over it that quickly. I sat and stewed and wondered and pondered and doubted and questioned- had I done the right thing? Did I swoop in for the rescue too quickly? Should I have pulled my son out of the game before it got to that point? I’d continue that thinking for the entire day & night (I still do as I write this) and the only thought that calmed me was, “at least he didn’t get a shiner for picture day on Wednesday.”

This is an original post of the Philly Moms Blog. Lindsay also blogs for Converseon, the social media agency where she is an Account Director.