I picked a fight with my son today, for a reason I could really use on almost any day. Arriving home from work, I went into my Ward Cleaver routine long enough to hear that he had had another moment of dangerous rambunctiousness at school today. His misfortune: he happened to be passing through the room, oblivious to the conversation, and intent on a favorite toy he was fetching from place to place.

I was imperious as I called him over, and detailed for him my problem with how he had been conducting himself. I repeated my position for effect, and concluded by having him relinquish the toy to me, on the grounds that he needed more time to get over wanting to act like a bad boy. For all the reasons I occasionally belabor, I'm not certain he really got it, but he seemed contrite enough as he walked away, empty handed. Another thing gone unsatisfyingly, and as well as it could have. I felt myself nodding and frowning, and endeavored to control both.

I brushed aside my wife's commentary on my therapeutic performance and left the room myself - which is a completely different problem, but hey, one at a time. She's fundamentally mistaken about what I'm trying to do, and how I feel about doing it. The problem that I see is off in the infrared for her; not her fault, she's just not wired for it.

My son's life, from a social view, has been largely about therapists since around the time he learned to walk. A peculiarity of the profession is that these therapists are mostly women with hearts of gold, and my son is kind of a cute kid. (One of the better aspects of his genetics.) As a result, his whole experience of people is of women who genuinely want to treat him kindly, or at worst are willing to treat him kindly as long as the money's flowing. As far as he can tell, it's all the same. (Another genetic thing, I fear.)

He is absolutely convinced that everyone in the world really wants to give him a hug.

He's nearing his teen years, and if they go anything like mine did, this is not a mindset that will serve him well. Let's leave aside for a moment the women, because that problem is just going to get exponentially weirder over the next few years, as his body opens up new avenues of stupidity to him. Let's just talk about the men.

Guys get along together differently, as I'm sure you know. Nobody gets to act like they're the only bull in the herd without consequence, and guys in general won't make allowances for my son's peculiarities quite like women with hearts of gold. He needs to get a taste of that, to know what it's like to be reined in, know the subtext of his grandfather's adage: "Sometimes you got to go along to get along." I don't want his first taste of this to be blood in his mouth. I don't want him to have to live through having knocked two of his best friend's teeth down his throat in a heated moment, like his grandfather's story retold to me at his age whenever it seemed it might instruct me.

He's got to get a handle on what happens when there are no hugs.

I don't know if I can help him with that, and I certainly don't know if I can teach that lesson while simultaneously being told that I'm not following the course of his therapy. It simply doesn't cross her mind that I'm trying to give him something that will save him from getting his ass beat, and this is one of those things that a daddy has to do however it's in him to do it. It's part of the nature of the lesson - mommy can't always make it come out right. There just isn't any patient repetition of the important cues in this, nor any reinforcing hugs.

I'm starting to think my best move to help him is to just rename him Sue, and get myself over the horizon.