Bully For You

Hey you!

Yeah you! If you have an over-grown twelve year old with thick, short-shorn brown hair who was wearing a bright orange t-shirt on this last Tuesday, October 9th around 4:30 PM, and was hanging out in the Mercer Island public library—unsupervised--I’m calling you out. Obviously, your twelve year old has the social boundaries of a gnat. Contain that juvenile delinquent or next time, I’ll be calling the police. Seriously. Librarian squad simply doesn’t seem to do the trick.

So there I was hiding out and looking skanky in the Mercer Island Public Library. The skanky part is discussed in detail in this post, so we won’t go today. Suffice it to say, I was there killing time between the never-ending swim practices that come with year-round swimming.

As usual, I let my five year old, Li’l Man, play in the children’s room while I took up residence at the closest computer to the entrance to the children’s room to blog. All I had to do was twist around to see him through the window. Usually, he has an older sibling with him, but not today.

Nevertheless, he seemed fine when I checked up on him. He is always well-behaved. He was happy to have his special lunch box with him with in which he had tenderly packed his own snack all by himself. He sat down to watch an older kid play a video game on the table of computers. About eight kids sat around the bank of computers and he seemed content just to watch. Can you tell he’s the youngest of three? Amazing patience and observation comes naturally.

I continued tapping away on keys until I hear this kid start sobbing. It was loud and I felt kind of bad for the little guy. His cries echoed off the walls, over-powering the usual quiet murmuring of the public library. It took a few seconds for me to realize that was MY son crying. I haven’t heard that cry since he was two. It had been so long since I had heard such distraught cry that I couldn’t even associate that sheer need to my capable, quiet, but confident son.

I rushed to the room and scooped Li’l Man up. He was inconsolable and I was not able to distinguish anything he said. Meanwhile, all the older kids’ eyes kept sliding to the side.

I asked what happened and the oldest kid, closest to my son, murmured very insincerely that he was sorry. My son's little chin trembled. Trails tears dripped down his nose and over his lips. His little chest shuddered. I took him back to the main room and tried to calm him down. When he did and told me what happened with little gasps and hiccups punctuating his sentences, it was difficult to keep me calm.

According to my son, the older kid had connected to the Internet and was playing bloody games in the children’s room. He didn’t like my son watching him. Then he took my son’s lunchbox and moved it above his head out of reach, until frustrated, Li’l Man smacked him on the arm trying to get to it. So this 12 year old had punched him in the FACE.

Who could punch a li'l face like this?

I took Li’l Man’s hand and rushed him back into the children’s room. With raised voice, I asked the older kid if this was the truth? Surely, this middle-schooler hadn’t punched a kindergartner in the face?

Apparently, yes. “Yes,” he said, he had hit my son in the face because Li’l Man, “was annoying him.” Yet, he said with an insouciant smile, he was, “Sorry.” Yep, that makes it all better?

Almost shrieking at this point, I ask him how old he was? “TWELVE!”

Then, I angrily ask him where his mother was? “Not here.”

So, as a mother with nothing to discipline, I chose the only tool at my disposable. Yep, humiliation!

I told him how pathetic and ridiculous he was to have stolen a lunch box and punched a kid less than half his size. He seemed astounded in a very entitled, spoiled way that saying a lame, insincere apology was not sufficient. Did I mention we were in the land of spoiled, rich kids Mercer Island?

Realizing, my point was not getting through, I march over to the librarian’s desk to get some back up. Waiting in line, I tap my foot furiously. Finally, I get a young, inexperienced librarian. She seemed shocked that this type of bullying was going on, but also seemed a bit useless. I ask her if there’s at least an age limit? Errr, no, ma’am we can’t limit kids in the room by age. Well, then, I ask, what can be done so the Mercer Island library is not a place for bullying?

She said she wasn’t sure; she would have to ask the other librarians what is the protocol when this has happened before. Before? Before! Arrggh. In all my days, living in a dozen different cities, locales, and states, some good areas and some tough areas, I’ve never seen this happen, nor such an inept response.

She consoled my son and said she would talk to the boy. A minute later, she left the children’s room with the bully still firmly ensconced in his bully throne. What?! At the very least, he should have had a parent called or been asked to leave, yes? Again, librarian squad simply didn’t do the trick.

We left soon after. I made sure to give him one last evil eye. The little shit grinned back. I struggled now not to scream four-lettered obscenities.

So, fellow Northwesterners, what should I have done? A friend suggested that I should have discovered his name from a notebook or backpack and found out where he lived. I fear I would have been turned into the bad guy, stalking a middle school child. This dear friend also gave me a laugh, suggesting those Mercer Islanders were a bit elitist, but in her sage words, “Everyone’s shit stinks, even in Mercer Island.” Sage words. This kid’s behavior smelled to high heaven.

Yet, I’m still outraged that nothing was done. A couple of generations ago, my grandparents could have grabbed him by the ear. A couple generations ago, a teacher might have rapped him on the knuckles. Even my parents would have felt comfortable finding out who his parents were and calling them up for a chat. This generation seems wholly lacking the tools to contain these little monsters. We feel like we shouldn’t say anything to other people’s kids. At the same time, I want my kids to know that I stand up for them.

So, when we went to pick up my daughter from practice, we told her we could have used her. I don’t think for a minute this cowardly bully would have done something if Li’l Man’s older brother and sister were there. My princess with her gang of princess swim teammates threatened all sorts of dastardly punishments meted out, had they been there. Kung Fu kicks and jumping on backs were mentioned. I could see Li’l Man was starting to feel better that he had people who would always defend him.

When we arrived home, the story was relayed once again to my eleven year old. I guess this is why I am so outraged. I know my large eleven year old son would never, no matter the provocation, hurt someone smaller. (Hells, he let his girlfriend kick him all the time. She was still in the age of showing her affections through violence. Those with fifth grade girls know the deal.) Anyhoo, he also was outraged that someone his size punched his baby brother.

After dinner, while washing dishes, I could hear the kids chatting upstairs. My ears pricked up at phrases like, “Hit him in the Jimmy.” Apparently, Li’l Man was being given some brotherly and sisterly advice.

Just so you know, hitting the ‘nads in our family has always been verboten. Forbidden. Absolutely wrong. Today, the gates are unflooding, my people. I chose not to intercept the advice. I hope my five year old does some significant damage to that bully’s jewels if ever the two should meet again.

As for me, my security is rattled. I will never leave Li’l Man in that room alone again. My Mama Bear is Out.

Touch these dimples again and I might just come after those 'nads myself.

So mother of said bully, yeah you: Control your freaking kid or don't let him out in public. I'm going old school next time.

'lisciously scribed by Scout's Honor @ 10:46 AM