The Humiliation of Being Attacked by My Eight-Year-Old Son in Public

He screamed. He hit. He raged. But I stayed–and I always will

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“I don’t want to stay here, you stupid chicken!”

Warrior, my eight-year-old son whom I adopted from fostercare and who has special needs, yelled at my back as I anxiously waited for the man to finish my taxes. Fifteen pairs of eyes from tax preparers 60 and older stared at me, waiting to see what I would do. After an hour with my tax worker, my son had reached his limit.

“Why don’t you take your kids outside while my colleague double-checks my work,” she suggested. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding — as if my own lungs could keep my 8-year-old from exploding.

Yet, as soon as Warrior stood to go, her colleague suddenly became available.

“I can see you now,” he said.

Warrior didn’t like that.

“No!” he yelled. “I’m going outside. Now!” When I tried to explain that we’d be leaving soon, he snapped. “You’re a stupid chicken, Mom! I hate you!” Then — whack! — his hand struck my back, followed by a dull thud as he kicked me again and again.

I knew disciplining him there would lead to an explosion, so I stayed silent, desperate to finish the…