Me: Son, why did you hit the other little kid?
Me: Did they hit you?
Imp: No... [more tears]
Me: Take something?
Imp: No...[more tears]
Me: Make fun of you?
Imp: [crying accelerates] Yes!
Imp: My talking.
Me: Because of the way you talk, or because you never shut up?
Imp: The way I talk! [positively bawling, at this point]
And at that point, I gave him a snack, and went off to ponder advice. About half an hour later:
Me: [sitting on the kitchen floor] Son, come here.
Me: No hitting. Not anybody.
Imp: That boy hurt my tummy.
Me: You mean your heart? Your feelings?
Imp: Yes, my feelings.
Me: You still don't hit. You say "Well, God bless you, too." And you don't talk to them, or play with them, or sit with them. And then you go tell a teacher.
Yes, the imp needs speech therapy. Yes, he has needed speech therapy for a while. Yes, we had him assessed, but he was totally uncooperative. I figured that we'd have to let him experience this before he'd be willing to do the necessary work.
I love my son. I love my son enough to break my own heart by letting him get into situations like this. If he's permitted to fail now, he'll learn how to handle it, and he'll be a success later in life, while the little mouth-breathing spoiled-rotten neanderthal who made fun of him can't do anything more complicated than pushing an idiot stick* with a fifty-thousand dollar student debt hanging over his head.
*An idiot stick: A stick with a shovel, mop, or broom head on one end, and an idiot on the other.
24 minutes ago