I talk to my seven-year-old like a grown man. He doesn't always like it.

I talk to my seven-year-old like a grown man. He doesn't always like it. And before anybody judges me for that, understand something. That boy gets more affection than any kid I know. I tell him I love him 50 times a day. I hug him, I wrestle with him. He falls asleep on my chest all the time. He knows exactly what he is. But when something matters, that voice, shrink down to fit his age. If he quit on something, I say, and we talk about it like two grown men at a table. He gets uncomfortable. I can see it. And I let it sit because I know something that he doesn't know yet. The world is already planning on talking to him like a grown man. A coach will do it. A boss is going to do it. A bank is going to do it. Life will do it. But life isn't going to hug him first. I can't stop those conversations from coming. I can only decide whether the first hard voice he ever actually hears belongs to somebody who truly loves him. So call it harsh if you want. He's my best friend. And the world is going to speak to him like a man one day. I just made sure the first person to do it loves him.