As tales concerning sprightly children often go, it all happened so quickly.

I’d carted my young children solo to a birthday party rife with the stuff little kiddos’ dreams are made of. Balloons in multitudes of colors here, cupcakes in corresponding hues there, blissful children everywhere.

There were goodies in infinite flavors, many party favors, enjoyed by part-hat donned tots .

On one hand, I was so very ready to rock this. But the other hand left me feeling shorthanded indeed without the accompaniment of my zone-defense husband who was hard at work that weekend day.

Amid the balloons and pinatas and kiddos-oh-my, there were bounce houses front and center. The indoor facility which housed them was open to the public, allowing for children to quite literally bounce off the walls.

But I was ready for it, keeping a keen eye on my little rapscallions and a firm grip on my shoulder-strap diaper bag, fully loaded with applesauce pouches and baby wipes. Because you just never know.

Through dark mesh netting, I could somewhat glimpse shadowy figures bounding through a bounce house with the greatest of ease. I could hear my kiddos’ squeals of glee as they Neil-Armstronged their way around the inflated contraption pungent with kid sock smells.

Alongside their buddies, they leapt, sprung, and skipped to their lou and to their hearts’ content too. This continued on as other children came and went, all along the vibrantly colored tour-de-bounce-house.

But this magic was quickly curbed when I spotted a four-ish girl step out, looking a bit sad, a bit lost.

Right on her heels was my 4-year-old, appearing dazed, equally crestfallen.

I immediately got down to one knee and gently asked the girl if she was all right, as she was all alone.

Pointing to my son, she stated, ‘He pinched me.’

Furious, I turned to my boy and asked if this was true.

He nodded yes, then lifted up one hand to reveal a small bleeding cut.

‘She did this to me’, he quietly said, to which she nodded in agreement.

As they stood pointing to one another, a flustered man appearing to be her father ran to us, asking what happened.

“I’m trying to piece it together myself,” I said, imagining the many possibilities in which this run-in could have begun.

Could my son have instigated this little melee? Absolutely.

Although I’d never know for certain who started the scuffle, I knew it was critical to drive home the importance of taking responsibility for one’s actions, whether or not they were accidental, no matter how big or small the offense.

I quietly asked my son to apologize to the girl for pinching her, and he did.

She replied, “That’s OK,” and looked to her flustered father.

He quickly added, “We won’t let this happen again,” and took her by the arm and darted off.

Because he’d been standing behind me, I couldn’t say for certain to whom exactly the comment was directed, but something was certainly quirky about their abrupt exit.

My son was still dazed, and so I looked at him, my knee slowly growing sore from it grinding into astroturf beneath me.

I said, “I’m glad you apologized to her. That was the right thing to do. But she should have apologized to you too.”

In my head and in my heart, I screamed, ‘SHE DIDN’T APOLOGIZE TOO? WHO DOES THAT? SHE DREW BLOOD!’

The whole thing was truly odd. There was no way her father could have missed that bleeding cut.

I was disappointed and couldn’t help but think he’d missed an important cue, in that he could have followed suit and nudged his daughter to acknowledge her part in the fracas fiasco.

Did I mention she drew blood?

When I shared this story with my friend whose child was celebrating his birthday, she was horrified.

‘Did you say anything to him?’

I hadn’t. No major damage had been done, certainly no broken limbs, and in my puzzlement, it didn’t occur to me that they’d bolt until they had.

My husband and I have an unspoken agreement with our siblings who have children, in that we’ll equally discipline our nieces and nephews as we would our own children any time a rumpus breaks out among the young cousins. But that’s family.

Skirmishes happen. Often. They’re kiddos. And kiddos in bounce houses often mean more skirmish opportunity.

But we adults play the role of teaching our children right from wrong, while at the same time allowing them space to work things out for themselves.

We try to find that delicate middle ground that’s not quite free range parenting, but not quite helicopter parenting either.

We need to give kiddos space to let them grow, but if they’ve stepped out of line, we let them know.

This also brings up the uncomfortable question of when to discipline another’s child.

In this case, the offense was a minor one. I wasn’t going to read the riot act to a girl who’d caused a teeny flesh wound.

I was certainly disappointed that her dad opted to remain mum.

But I felt it was important for my son to know that her omission of accountability was not right, however small it was, just as I’d made sure he knew it wasn’t right to pinch.

Then the whole fiasco was over in a pinch.

As tales concerning sprightly children often go, it all happened so quickly.

And just as quickly as father and daughter had scampered over the astroturf, through the maze of bounce houses outta there, my son had giddily resumed bouncing position with his brother and pals, before they were called to his friend’s party table for pizza and pinatas.

We sang and cheered, and I thought to myself that as parents, perhaps we really all do the best we can in the moment.

Perhaps that father, like me, was also watching multiple children.

Perhaps he too felt shorthanded without his own significant other with whom to play zone-defense.

Perhaps he wasn’t totally aware of what had happened and didn’t intend to make his daughter feel entitled after all.

But that moment was gone. Now it was time for pizza and pinatas and party hats.

And it doesn’t get better than that.

— Michelle Cote is the art director of the Journal Tribune. She enjoys cooking, baking, and living room dance-offs with her husband, two boys and a dog. She can be contacted at mcote@journaltribune.com.