I was 44 when I drafted this sonnet, and my kids were 17 and 12. My interlocutor had sons age 11 and 4. Our biggest area of disagreement was parenting. My goal was to raise self-regulating individuals who could handle their own boredom. My friend’s aim was to love, adore and enjoy his kids, and let them raise themselves.

That was a decade and a half ago. I never see my old friend any more. But I know who won the argument.

We over dinner talked of gifted kids,
for we each have a pair, and they are bright
of course (who isn’t? brilliance bids
in Berkeley for attention day and night).
And I maintained I’m maybe just as smart
as mine or smarter, surely smart enough
to guide them pulling artifice apart
(like raising me but maybe not as rough).

I mentioned books on this I haven’t read
(for I don’t like to read psychology
or critics’ work or “how to” words – instead
I try to act from earnest memory).
And you said most of all we have to heed,
when words from us are what they really need.