Mommies, when you pass me and my crying son, please don't frown and say, "He needs his mommy." When you see me and my son sharing an ice cream, please don't make that tight-lipped look of disapproval as you whip out your Ziploc bag of whole-grain, gluten-free, sugar-free, trans fat-free, and joy-free snacks. When you see me and my son having difficulty, please don't offer your righteous advice. I don't need you to explain the latest in child-raising theories. In a year, this theory will have been dismissed or forgotten. Raising your own children does not make you an expert. Your son is not like mine, you are not like me, and your vision of manhood is not the same as mine. How can your experience have much relevance to us? As you raise your son to be cannon fodder for the school bully, I raise mine to be the only kid on the playground with the moral, emotional, and physical strength to come to his aid. So turn your SUV-like baby stroller with cup holder for your non-fat latte around and mind your own business. Sincerely yours, Papa.—Anonymous