He just has a strong sense of personal space.
He doesn’t like being boxed in.
He has to learn how to stand up for himself.
He’s a vigilante.

(Translation: Evan just shoved / bit / whacked another child.)

Little Johnny’s a Shover.
Little Johnny’s a Biter.
Little Johnny’s a Hitter.

Can't they DO something about that already?

(Translation: another child just shoved / bit / whacked Evan.)

The truth of my own double-standard occurred to me last night as I waited for sleep. Training your kid to be unfailingly gentle, sharing and selfless is akin to training your cat to run away. No matter how diligently you try, you’ll fail. The only remedy is time.

In the meantime, all I can do is react appropriately when we’re the aggressor: be liberally Horrified. Because I am, truly. Again. Dammit! Dammit. F**K. I am instantly naked in front of twelve thousand people, my parenting in question. My response is not so much EVAN! DON'T BITE! But EVAN! DON’T EMBARRASS US! DON’T GIVE US A COLLECTIVE REPUTATION! DON’T GET US BANNED AT FAMILY REUNIONS! DON’T MAKE US THE SUBJECT OF OTHERPARENT DREAD! DON’T LET THE REST OF THE WORLD SEE THAT I HAVE NO CLUE HOW TO DEAL WITH THIS!

Hello. My name is Kate. Sometimes, my son sees his cousin’s arm as a juicy corn cob.

Face it. Live it. Own it. No matter how pristine, no matter how perfect, your child will eventually become a toddler. And no matter how loudly you crow about Sweet Juanita’s sunny disposition, she will soon begin showing random mall shoppers her cho-cha. Or eating her own boogers at the dinner table. And even if you wrote the book, her playdate companion will someday be on the receiving end of her fisticuffs.

Please agree. Otherwise, I have to accept that it’s just Evan.