I think I’m raising a bully

Little Man is all boy.

He likes to throw things, including punches.  And they hurt to be coming from a three year old!  He fights his shadow; he’ll position himself in front of me or any other adult and go through his Chuck Norris routine of karate moves even though he has no idea who Chuck Norris is.

And he picks on his older sister incessantly.

I remember a time when I was younger, I wanted a big brother, but I’m second guessing that now because I think as the younger sibling, I would incessantly be driving him crazy, too.

It must be a sibling thing, I tell myself.

I’m not so sure it’s true, though, because when I watch Little Man play with his toys, they’re always beating each other up, with the requisite “pshew, pshew” coming from his mouth (and lots of spit, too, I might add).

Then there are those times when he’s the sweetest little boy around.  He will curl up in my lap and say, “I love you, mommy,” or he’ll ask Monkey to read him a story at night.

Those precious gems totally outweigh the big, bad tough guy he shows us during the day, and give me hope that I’m not really raising a bully.

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