My Inner Child

Too many people have the tendency to infantilize their inner child, plying them with childish things – toys, candy, and coloring books. I don’t do that. My inner child is precocious and wise beyond his years. So I provide him with cartons of unfiltered cigarettes, crates of grain alcohol, and fireworks smuggled in from Pennsylvania. I don’t treat my inner child like a child. That’s my first and only rule.

He understands macroeconomics, microeconomics and enjoys expensive sushi on a semi-weekly basis. The folks always saying that mercury is in retrograde never seem to approve of consuming copious amounts of raw tuna. I wonder why. It’s as if they haven’t thought through their mindless little aphorisms. Well, I have.

I let him drive, letting the local authorities worry about his license and registration. My inner child is a far better driver than most adults on the road. Which, admittedly, isn't a particularly high bar. We have long talks about Kris Kringle and the realities of his arctic living situation amid our increasingly untenable climate situation.

I leave my inner child home alone for days on end, believing he’ll figure out how to cook an egg or order takeout. I trust him not to burn the place down. But if he does, he knows where the fire extinguisher is. I don’t patronize him by using monosyllabic words, but assume he understands long-winded diatribes on current events. I don’t assume he thinks that geo-politics is tangentially related to the Geo Tracker.

My inner child is no stranger to nostalgia, despite his age, which remains indeterminate. I don’t look down on him because of his lack of higher education. A degree doesn’t define a person, I know that. He knows that. You should know that.  

 

My inner child is getting up there, a little long in the tooth. Pretty soon, my inner child will be my inner adult, growing up like anyone else. But no matter what, he’ll always be my inner child to me.