The first time you found your son in his room among a heap of the wooden wreckage of his crib, you marked it up as a fluke. You wrote a letter to the crib manufacturer demanding a refund. Three different cribs later, you were forced to recognize the undeniable truth.
You had given birth to the Hulk.
The training course for the child was clear. Anger management to control the transformation. Sewing classes to repair torn clothing. Squats for juicy legs.
There was training to be done on your end, too, though. It was, perhaps, the most important training of all. For days, months, and years you slaved away; you pounded keys from the early morning to late at night. Practice turned to dedication; dedication to obsession.
By the child’s eighteenth birthday you had mastered your discipline. You were ready.
As he walked down the airport terminal to board his flight to college, you did what you always knew was your duty. You set up your portable keyboard and played the Lonely Man Theme from the incredible hulk TV show, and cried.