To Make a Man

You must allow your child to get into things, he says.  He must push the buttons on your television, he must climb onto your bookshelves.  He must burn his hand on the oven, and fall down.  He will experience the world.

The music in the bar is loud, and I sip my draught beer and nod.  His son is seventeen years older than my little boy.  When he was small, he says, I could not be his friend.  But now, now he is a man and we are friends.

I tell him that I do not pad my coffee table.  My son will crack his head on his grandparents’ hearth.  He will fall into the pool and learn to swim.  I will give him my hand if he is drowning, but he will not wear water wings.

The world is full of sharp edges, I say.  He needs to grow up knowing that.

Today I advertised my job online.  The hiring range is ten grand higher than I make.  Because, says my corporate director, who denied me a raise countless times – because, she says, we can’t hire a high performer like you for such low pay.  You really made this place, she says, and now your replacement will step into a perfect setup.  We couldn’t have started this up without you.  I do not think there is irony in her tone, though it is hard to tell, with the accent.  She is genuine.

I made the only choice, daily I am glad of it, but now I must work to not be bitter.

Sharp edges.  The world is not gentle, I will not always be there to place my hand between his temple and the corners.  There will be blood.  He falls, puts his tooth through his lip, and I say Good.  Good.