Arriving and Arrival

As a young boy I learned quickly to be self-sufficient and to fend for myself. At 10, I routinely cooked my own meals, did the laundry, sat down at the end of the day with our evening paper—The Augusta Herald. I started driving at 14 and would do the weekly grocery shopping at Harris Teeter which became Food Town which became Food Lion. Whatever its name on a particular day, the store was only a couple miles from the house and I avoided major roads. Aside from one bitter old woman in the neighborhood, no one ever said anything; and hers was but talk behind our backs. I’d never taken those types or their talk seriously anyway so it was of no concern to me.

During the years prior to the grocery runs, I spent my days and early evenings exploring the neighborhood, its woods and creeks, its railroad tracks at the bottom of the hill, its kids—younger and older; good and bad. From mid-morning on, I was away from the house building forts, walking the tracks and trails, throwing rocks at passing trains, skateboarding. My neighborhood was rough but I avoided serious trouble and temptation at most every turn. It was unnatural, really, how well-behaved I was. My mother always knew where I was and she knew she didn’t have to worry about me. Knew that I would manage just fine. And I did. I probably shouldn’t have, but I did. I was (and am) adept at avoiding fights; my run-ins with the Law were minor (either illegal firework offenses or witness to something not good). Although I have never not been around drugs and/or alcohol, I didn’t start drinking until midway through my senior year of high school. And drugs always scared me.

Fast forward many, many years. Granted, I have issues out the ass. I once described myself as having more issues than National Geographic. Now I say more issues than the New Yorker because I think I am clever and to my literary ear, it sounds more sophisticated (I am often wrong). But, truth be told, I turned out relatively okay. Except for a five-month span in 1999, I’ve always held a job. I’ve never been in rehab. I’m as sociable and charitable as the next guy. In short, I get by. I think a lot of that is due to the leniency I was afforded while growing up.

Sometimes I rehash my childhood and marvel that I am not a thief, junkie, or some other blight on the social landscape. See, I was granted a great deal of trust as a kid. Negligence is not to be confused with trust in this case. I believe that. But, I also believe I have been extremely lucky during my life. Luck and common sense can serve a person well. Surround yourself with good people and luck often takes care of itself. But, I admit, falling into “good people” is also in and of itself lucky. So, perhaps it is all luck—fuck, I don’t know. Who does?

All of that to get to this: I now am raising a Boy of my own. He is everything to me. I recognize the unfair burden this places upon him, but (as I’ve stated here before) to deny it would be dishonest. And of my flaws, dishonesty isn’t one of them. Em is a uniquely intelligent and kind Boy; and I think fine things await him. But in an ironic twist, I have become an overbearing, overprotective father to the Boy. He is only four, so much of my behavior is justified. But I worry that I have initiated a trend I won’t be able to alter as the months and years accumulate. It is a vastly different world from when I was a child. Or so it seems. In truth, the dangers are likely the same, but our awareness of them is more pronounced. I cannot fathom letting Emerson go off alone, exploring what he will need to explore in order to mature. This bothers me tremendously. How can he possibly grow into his own person if I am unwilling to let him out of my sight for a millisecond? Perhaps it is a moot point—a needless worry—at this young age as being constantly aware of him and his doings is indeed my job. But I do not foresee me relenting in the future.

Certainly, though, I’ll recognize this as unhealthy and instinctively know when to “give” a little. I have seen hints of it over the past six months. Maybe that bodes well for us. Who’s to say? But even when he is 10 or 12, I have trouble envisioning turning him loose to experience life and make decisions that will help shape who he is to become. I cannot imagine giving him free run of the neighborhood and allowing the natural exploration he will demand and deserve. And this seems damn criminal to me. I am aware of it yet unsure whether I’ll be able to correct it. Isn’t that some shit? A premeditated crime against my own Boy.



And so this is an example of one of the things that take up space in my crowded bean. I’m not a complete buffoon. I realize that at some point I will settle on a happy medium between the ultra-freedom I had as a child and the realistic limits necessary for raising, protecting, encouraging, and trusting a child in today’s uncertain world. These things have a way of working themselves out. It’s just a matter of wanting to do things right the first time—save us all a little heartache, you know? It’s difficult at times to find that middle ground. The correct answer.

It is no different than wanting to gift-wrap the world and hand-deliver the thing in its splendor to my son.

And it is no different than knowing that is the worst possible thing I could ever do for him.