He says, “I know that you’re all in this hippy frame of mind where the normal world doesn’t have to exist, but man, it does. She’ll fall behind. She’ll lose all of her friends. She can’t handle being one of those kids.”
“She won’t lose friends and she won’t be behind in anything because she’ll be living. She’s already, if we’re talking measurements, ahead. But it’s more than that. She can’t sit in a room for eight hours and be told how to be herself, but smarter. Life isn’t just about math and science, it’s also about emotional intelligence. She’s incredible, you know. She’s so empathetic, she can’t focus on walking down the street without tripping, because she notices the homeless man crying on the corner. Then she asks why he’s sad. She’s been like that for most of her life.”
“So what you’re saying is, she got the worst things from both of us?”
He’s sarcastic, wine adding glee, making him insert humour into this potential A-bomb conversation I’m so passionate about.
I retort, beaming, and smack the smile from his face.
“She’s already better than either of us could ever aspire to be. She’s amazing and inspiring, period.”
He’s serious now, wondering whether the pills I’ve been taking has created this opinion, whether eggshells are what’s underfoot as he responds.
“Yeah, I know she’s great. She’s beautiful, she’s smart, she’s three and she already has a fucking sense of humour. I just hope that life doesn’t beat that out of her. I hope that I can teach her how to be happy.”
He’s not getting it. He thinks that life is something that happens to you, not a mambo you do with each breath, seeking different and same within each blink and thought and memory. Imprinted on his soul is the message that jaded is a consequence of life span.
I take a deep breath and my eyes feel like they’re shining maniacally.
“We can’t teach her to be happy. We have to guide her to learn how to fall from happiness and bounce back. We have to let her see that she doesn’t have to be happy all of the time.”
Pensive. No more jokes. I prod, “Do you think that being told to sit still, to learn about fractions at 10am, and that she needs to fit into a little tiny box with the other children will help her learn that?”
He looks at me, so crystal clear that I can’t see the tannins and thc cloud his mind.
“Okay. But she has to have scheduled time with other kids. I mean it. I don’t want her missing out on a social life. And you need to play with her more.”
This post is in response to this week’s {w}rite of passage challenge. I can’t add the linky, but visit the page to participate or find other writers, hell-bent on ripping the band-aids off of their writing.
