A boy hit Lee at the park last week. Lee was climbing up a ladder into the play structure, and the little boy blocked Lee’s way, stared him down, and then hit him with his baseball mitt. Lee blinked in shock and then started to cry. I tried to grab that little boy’s shirt. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do, but I was angry. I wanted to slap him across the face and say, “That’s what it feels like, you bully. How do you like it?” The boy was probably two or three like Lee, but Lee is small for his age. Before I was able to do anything, the boy’s mother swooped in saying that she’d take care of it. You better, I thought. I fumbled for the correct response. The wise one. “What’s his name?” “Damian.” “I’ve never had this happen to me before. I just don’t know what to do.” It was awkward. She was embarrassed. And I was angry. Angry at that boy and angry at myself for not protecting Lee. I’ve encountered this boy at Central Park before today. Last ti