Magical misjudgement

A couple of years ago, I revealed a "truth" to Frederic. He was almost seven, so I felt he was ready to hear what I had to say.

Frederic loves magic. He has since he was old enough to concentrate on his surroundings. He was talking in full sentences at 18 months, so whenever he saw a magic trick, he would always ask how to do it. We even signed him up for Magic Class when he was four, ignoring the six year old minimum age requirement. Frederic was able to learn the basic tricks he was taught, and his thirst for learning magic continued to grow.

Frederic had always been convinced most of his life that I had magical powers. He got this idea directly from the source. I would play tricks on him like make his favorite stuffed animal--Gummy--disappear. The trick only worked when he closed his eyes or ran into the other room to "summon the power." He was amazed by my talent and would constantly ask me to make things disappear. After a while, Frederic stopped asking me to do the trick. I assumed he just got bored of it and was on to something else.

Then he went to a friend's 8th birthday party. The entertainment was none other than his Magic Class teacher. I didn't attend the party, but when Frederic came home, he had a renewed interest in his old favorite past time. So, he asked me to make Gummy disappear. He was so excited when I was easily able to make the impossible possible. He had me perform the trick several times, and included his sister, Lily, in the fun.

At some point, Frederic decided that it was time for father to pass the magic on to son. He concluded that if I was able to make things disappear, so could he. So he tried. He summoned Lily to the other room, put a blanket on his little blue bear friend, and said the magic words. When Lily returned and the blanket was lifted, Gummy was still there. Frederic tried it again. This time, he had Lily close her eyes. Abracadabra: nothing. Gummy did not vanish.

He was crushed. He felt that the magician gene was not passed on.

I guess I could have told him that it skipped a generation, or that he had to be eight before he could perform this wonderful feat.

But I didn't. Instead, I sat him down and explained the trick. I continued to crush him with every word. At first, he refused to believe me. He insisted I was just kidding. Once the realization set in, he ran into the other room and cried.

"Why did you tell me?" he kept asking. "Why?"

It was a rash decision on my part. A snap judgement that I couldn't take back. I continue to regret this, even though just yesterday we laughed about it.

"Remember that time you told me you didn't have magical powers," he said. "That was funny."

Funny. I don't think you thought it was funny.

I guess that's his way of telling me he forgives me. It's his way of letting me realize he's not forever scarred from my reveal.