What we learn- The Rite of Passage by Sharon Olds

As the guests arrive at my son's party
as they gather in the living room-
short men, men in first grade
with smooth jaws and chins.
Hands in pockets, they stand around
jostling, jockeying for place, small fights
breaking out and calming. One says to another
How old are you? Six. I'm seven. So?
They eye each other, seeing themselves
tiny in the other's pupils. They clear their
throats a lot, a room of small bankers,
they fold their arms and frown. I could beat you
up, a seven says to a six,
the dark cake, round and heavy as a
turret, behind them on the table. My son,
freckles like specks of nutmeg on his cheeks,
chest narrow as the balsa keel of a
model boat, long hands
cool and thin as the day they guided him
out of me, speaks up as a host
for the sake of the group.
We could easily kill a two year old,
he says in his clear voice. The other
men agree, they clear their throats
like Generals, they relax and get down to
playing war, celebrating my son's life.

The first birthday party when a young boy invites friends rather than just family.  As the mother of this young boy watches the interactions she is for the first time confronted with the aggressive urges that a male child feeds into while surrounded by his male peers.  These boys are not babies anymore and perhaps this is the first time she has considered this fact as she reflects on the birth of her baby.  She describes his youthful, and innocent appearance followed by his claim that he could "kill a two year old" and the initiation of "playing war".  Mother's who have son's engaging in real-time war games will always remember their son with "specks of nutmeg on his cheeks". Male children have "played" war for years and this poem expresses the irony felt while allowing this practice and secretly hoping the reality of war never touches the life of a child.  The final line could be more ironic, "playing war, celebrating my son's life."