My inner child is still a child—just as selfish as any other child and just as demanding. I hope he’s charming, but I have doubts. I know better than you do. Sometimes I’d like to paddle him, but I can’t—can’t get to him. I could paddle myself but I’m not going to make me hurt. Besides, my unhurt inner child would laugh. I hate the sound—shrill, high-pitched. The little shit.
I think he gets too much attention. I think if I let him out too long he would cuss too much. But what if I let him out and he were cute? I mean said the kinds of endearing remarks that adults want to imagine exist in the hearts of children? What if my inner child were actually good? We’d see lots more inner children released than we've been seeing—lots of little Mr. Rogerses. What would that do to cynicism as we know it? Inner children out, cynicism tucked into hiding.
Is my inner child needed? He needs me—no me, no inner child. I carry him around. If I die, adios, Inner Child.


Eugene H. Bales is the author of Rudolph: Encourged by His Therapist (Woodley Press 1997). His work has been featured in Star Magazine and other publications. He and his wife live in Savannah, Missouri.


Copyright © 2006. Do not reproduce without permission.

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